Duty
by PennyCent
Summary: A Vietnam based story following the team's origins. Rated T for language and violence. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**_~This is my first attempt at a Vietnam era story for the guys. I tried to do some research before starting, but if you see any glaring (or minor) errors with any of my information, please feel free to let me know. I would really appreciate the help. _****_While I will try and keep this fairly canon, some of the aspects of the show were a little hard to mesh with the realities of the Vietnam War. I'm hoping that this is a fair mix of both worlds._**

**_~Well, I hope you enjoy this, and thanks for reading!_**

**_Disclaimer: The team is not mine; I am just borrowing them. Thanks!_**

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

The formalities could wait—Hannibal had neither the time nor patience for them at the moment. He strode into the office, not bothering to knock _or _salute, and took a seat. With some luck, he could get back to the card game in the barracks before his new sergeant slugged another officer. He enjoyed the man's spunk but hated the paperwork it created.

Overhead, a sluggish ceiling fan slowly churned its blades, doing little to alleviate the discomfort produced by the humid jungle heat. Drenched in sweat, Hannibal concentrated on the low hum of the fan— a constant, subtle reminder of the oppressingly stagnate air filling the room.

He cleared his throat, but remained, for the most part, ignored.

Behind a rusted metal desk, Colonel Morrison sat; his dark eyes—never straying up to greet Hannibal—were fixated on the paperwork before him. He flipped a page, his forehead wrinkling as he read. Perspiration darkened the underarms of his uniform, matched by the deep V of moisture plastering the front of his shirt to his chest.

"So…Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, How're the new men working out?" The glib words tumbled out, followed by a tight, thin-lipped smirk.

Hannibal grinned. There was no way in hell he was going to answer truthfully—they _both_ knew that.

"Colonel Morrison, sir." He allowed himself a hint of a bite to it, but, otherwise, he kept his tone _fairly_ respectful. "They're doing just fine."

Morrison looked up, his smile slowly fading. "I doubt that very much. I've seen the reports, but Sergeant Baracus and Lieutenant Peck are your problems—not mine. That was our agreement."

Hannibal nodded. They were problems, but he'd fix that… _eventually_.

Shifting uneasily in his chair, he studied Morrison carefully. So far, this was all old news—nothing that had warranted being urgently summoned into HQ only two days into his week-long R&R.

"But…"Morrison closed the file he'd been studying. "…the conduct of your men isn't why I called you here." Leaning back in his chair, he smoothed his damp hair and stared thoughtfully over at Hannibal. "I have a mission for you."

_Shit. _

A long silence resided between the two men. The imposing sternness eased from Morrison's expression; his eyes softened, betraying his hidden concern. Even in the sweltering heat, Hannibal felt a sudden, startling chill, and, contrary to what he would have expected, it wasn't at all comforting.

"John…" Morrison paused, uncertainly hindering his words as he awkwardly shifted between being a commander and a friend. "I know you and your boys just got back from the boonies, but no one else can do this—no one else would survive. At least _you'd _have a chance."

There was no arguing with that—not that Hannibal would try. His team had been handcrafted for just this type of mission; this was the whole reason the army put up with his unorthodox methods and his stubborn refusal to move upwards to a position more suited to his rank but…

Before the memories of the Song Zai mission grew too vivid, he shook them away._ 'At least you'd have a chance;'_ Morrison had used that same line before, when he had sent them to Song Zai. Sure, they had succeeded, but the cost had been high; Rolland and Mills were proof of that.

Suddenly realizing that Morrison had been watching him, waiting for a response, Hannibal stiffened. "So, what're the details?"

Returning to his role as commander, Morrison shuffled through his files. "A Huey went down ten klicks outside of Dong Xoai." He pulled a grainy map out of a file and slid it across the desk to Hannibal; a few scrawled marks of red ink marked the last known location of the chopper. "There has been no word from the crew, but we're getting reports that the Viet Cong have seized the chopper and the area is crawling with unfriendlies. From what we've gathered, they're going to try and get the bird airborne again. It had apparently suffered minimal damage; the pilot may have been able to land it in a small clearing in the jungle, basically delivering it right into enemy hands."

"So, we go in and blow it up?" Something wasn't making sense. "But, why wouldn't we just send the flyboys over to bomb the place?"

"Intel wants the chopper back." Morrison gave a weary sigh; he obviously wasn't enthusiastic about the plan. "They think they might be able to piece together what the Cong are up to if they can study the Huey. They want any maps, books, scribbled writing—_anything_ you find in the Viet Cong's possession."

"We're going to fly the bird out of there?" Hannibal raised a brow; this whole thing sounded insane, even to him. "And…um…what if they loaded it up with C4? I'd not too keen on becoming a Viet Cong firework."

"If it's too dangerous to fly, then you blow it up."

Damn what Intel wanted; no matter what, this bird was too dangerous to get in. Hannibal had already decided they were going to blow it sky-high and then get the hell out of there, but, for now, he'd play along.

"Are we taking Captain Williams with us?" The idea of babysitting a pilot on the ground wasn't really appealing, but at least Hannibal liked Williams; the man was quiet, focused and talented.

"No…we've got someone else lined up for you."

If he'd actually planned on flying the chopper out of the jungle, Hannibal might have raised a little hell over the issue, but since he wasn't even going to need the pilot, he'd let this one slide.

Narrowing his eyes, keeping up his facade of anger, he glared over at Morrison. "Who?"

The fact that Morrison had to shuffle through his papers again to find the name wasn't reassuring. "Captain H.M. Murdock. He has a very impressive file. It looks as if he flew for the Thunderbirds."

Hannibal held his tongue. Thunderbirds or not, the guy wasn't his first choice. He wanted someone he knew—someone who had saved his keister before.

"Why can't I have Williams?" Ok, the matter was harder to drop than he had thought.

"Listen…" Morrison pushed the captain's paperwork aside. "…Half of Murdock's file is classified. I'm not sure what his full background is, but the higher ups have a hell of a lot of confidence in this guy. We're going to have to trust them on this one."

"Fine." The lone word, signaling his defeat, irked him greatly, but he obviously didn't have any choice in the matter; he knew which battles to pursue and which to drop.

"We'll have a full briefing at seventeen hundred hours; have your men ready. Dismissed."

Startled by the sudden dismissal, Hannibal frowned. It wasn't until he spotted the figure patiently waiting outside the office door that he started to stand. As Major Thomas entered, Hannibal gave Morrison a lackluster salute before exchanging brief niceties with the major.

Finally, as he made his way out of the room, he started plotting his next course of action. Finding Peck was at the top of the list. He'd tried to keep the kid's AWOL status under wraps, but, with the new mission, that just got a hell of a lot more difficult. At least Baracus would be fine as long as Ray was still keeping an eye on him. Damn; he was going to owe Ray big time for that.

First thing was first though; he had to find this Murdock fellow and get a read on him. Hopefully, he'd be at least half as competent as Williams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Maybe it was paranoia, but, as he asked around the Phan Rang Base for Captain Murdock, Hannibal was getting the sinking feeling he was on the wrong end of a really bad joke; no one could answer him with a straight face _or_ tell him with any certainty where the pilot might be. He was starting to wonder if there even _was_ a Captain H.M. Murdock.

Tired of the runaround, Hannibal snatched the next warm body he saw, determined to get some answers. "Sergeant."

The dark-haired young man snapped to attention and Hannibal quickly sized him up. Short and squatty, face marred with acne, he couldn't have been a day over twenty. Judging by how he had paled the moment he realized a Lt. Colonel was addressing him, he'd probably do his damnedest not to piss Hannibal off either— which was good for both of them.

Not wanting to shake the kid up any more than need be, the colonel focused on keeping his mounting frustration from catching in his voice. "Sergeant, where can I find Captain H.M. Murdock?"

At first he thought the young man suffered from a nervous tick, but then, as he recognized it for the restrained smirk that it was, Hannibal felt his self-restraint snap.

"Damn it, sergeant, I'm going to make your life a living hell if I don't get some answers." He paused to take a deep breath, but kept his heated gaze fixed on the kid. "Now, where can I find Captain Murdock?_ And_ don't tell me you don't know."

Any trace of amusement that had been on the sergeant's blemished face fled in a heartbeat. Eyes wide, he pointed toward the mess hall; his voice was no more than a feeble squeak. "Around b-back, sir…Murdock should be at the matinee show."

Hannibal blinked. _Matinee show? _What the hell did that mean? He was about to press the kid for more answers, but, upon noting the sergeant's quaking legs, he cut the man loose.

"Dismissed."

He could appreciate the fact that the kid attempted to keep some dignity intact by not immediately scampering away; still, after a shaky salute, he shuffled off quickly enough.

With a tired sigh, and armed with new intel on the captain's location, Hannibal marched toward the mess hall, veered around to the back and halted. Damn it—he didn't have time for this.

Dressed in a flight suit, a lanky young man, maybe around twenty-five or so, stood amongst a large crowd of giggling Vietnamese children. A mischievous, happy light gleamed in the man's eyes as he stared down at the swarm of squirming youngsters vying for his attention. When it seemed that their energetic shouts had reached their peak, a simple wave of the man's hand quieted them.

Suddenly, and in perfect Vietnamese, the man launched into smooth flow of words. Obviously already deep into a story, he rapidly rotated through a cast of characters—each with some quirk that he imitated with great flourish, bringing further delight to his audience. Frequently he'd pause, still in the guise of a character, and ask the children a question. Wholeheartedly, their tiny voices screamed their answers back, as they waited anxiously for him to continue.

Though Hannibal admired the talented one-man show standing before him, he couldn't help but think doing a full-fledged performance in the middle of a war made this guy look absolutely nuts.

Catching sight of the man's name tape, Hannibal shrugged; unfortunately, it looked as if he'd found his pilot.

"Captain Murdock?"

Instantly, the zany voices and theatrical gestures ceased. Murdock glanced up; his wild, fluffy brown hair a mess after his enthusiastic acting. The children tensed, obviously sensing the intrusion was to end their fun. Their small faces filled with disappointment as they turned to nervously watch the colonel.

"Yes, sir." Murdock offered a salute, his posture turning to a rigid army stance as he addressed his superior officer; his brown eyes quickly darted to Hannibal's shirt, taking in the man's name and rank. "Colonel Smith, What can I do for you, sir?" The question lacked any curiosity and seemed more of a way to break the ice than anything else.

"Captain, I need to have a word with you." Casting a quick glance around at the children, Hannibal hastily added, "in private."

A toothy grin, almost too large on the lean face, brightened Murdock's expression. "No problem-o, sir."

Turning his attention back to his pint-sized audience, the captain said a few gentle, hushed words of Vietnamese. The children's unisoned groan was followed by their quick departure, as they scattered and fled in all directions. Only one little boy remained behind, listening intently to the quiet words the captain was directing at him. With one last devilish grin, the boy glanced at Hannibal and then took off in a dead run.

"And what, pray tell, was that about?" Hannibal asked, staring off after the boy.

Murdock shrugged. "I asked the kid to put another coin in the meter for me…" Again an overly large grin graced his face. "…I think I only put in enough for an hour of parking for my chopper. I'd hate to have it towed. _But_, enough about little ol' me, what are you in the neighborhood for, sir?"

The man's smile was infectious, and, despite his foul mood, Hannibal grinned back. There was something about this Captain Murdock, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, but he liked it.

"I heard you were going to be my pilot for an upcoming mission. I normally use Captain Williams." He watched the man carefully, curious to see his reaction.

Relaxing a bit, Murdock's shoulders hunched as he crammed his hands into his pockets and stared thoughtfully down at the ground. "Yeah, Williams is really good. I can see why you'd use him." He glanced up, meeting the colonel's gaze. "I flew as his peter pilot when I first got here; he's a hell of a guy."

Hannibal nodded. The fact that the young pilot hadn't turned this into a pissing match was a good sign.

"_But_, I hope you're alright with me flying." Murdock added quickly. "Williams' wife back home just had a baby—a little girl named Jezebel— and that, along with the fact that he's short, meant he _really_ didn't wanna take this mission. He's put in for doing nice safe cargo runs until his time is up."

_Shit._ Hannibal held his groan in. How had he not known his preferred pilot was short? Yeah, Baracus and Peck had kept him busy lately, but that was no excuse.

"What was up with the story time?" It was a good question— it'd let him gauge the man a little better and buy him some time to process the information about Williams.

The pilot gave a sad smile. "It's more for me than for them, I guess. Helps remind me why we're over here." Then, the full, jubilant grin returned to his face. "And they seem to like it."

That made sense; that actually made some of the most sense Hannibal had heard since shipping over. Any doubts he had about man's sanity vanished.

"So, you're a good pilot?"

This time Murdock gave a warm, loud laugh. "Good enough to go traipsing through the jungle and then brave the walk back again."

Startled by the answer, Hannibal frowned. "What is that supposed to mean, captain?"

If Murdock felt intimidated at all, he didn't show it. "Aw, come on colonel, I've heard some of the details of the mission and there is no way you're gonna load your men into that chopper. No one would. This is a boondoggle if I've ever seen one. We both know there is no way I'm getting up in the air this go around. You just need me for show, _right_?"

Hannibal blinked. The kid was good, but, if he'd known he was going to be grounded, that left the colonel with one nagging question.

"Why agree to come at all, if you knew you wouldn't get to fly?"

"Guess I just like the idea of a good stroll." Murdock replied, and, for the first time, Hannibal could detect a hint of uncertainly playing across the pilot's face.

"You could opt out if you wanted to. I'd explain it to Morrison."

Murdock's eyes narrowed, fixing on the colonel. "You tryin' to get rid of me already? You haven't even seen me in action yet! My hiking skills are A-one, tops."

Hannibal laughed. "No, I'd just understand if you didn't want to go. Flyboys seem to have an aversion to ground missions, though I can't imagine why." Satisfied with the pilot, and starting to feel the pressure of his time crunch, Hannibal gave a brief wave and started to turn away. "That will be all for now, captain. I'll see you at…"

"Seventeen hundred hours." Murdock finished. "Morrison already told me." Then, voice tinged with amusement, the captain added, "he also warned me that you'd probably hunt me down and question me before then; I guess he was right."

Hannibal paused, wondering what else Morrison had told Murdock. He almost asked but shrugged the question off instead. He was running short on time and he still had to find Peck.

"Captain…" Hell, it was a long shot, but he had to try. "…you wouldn't happen to know where a Lieutenant Peck is, would you?"

Murdock's eyes lit up. "Faceman? A' course I know where he's at. Want me to take you to him?"

An odd mixture of relief and suspicion filled the colonel. He was either tremendously lucky or there was a lot more going on than he knew about, and, since Peck was involved, he was pretty sure it was the latter of the two. Not to mention the fact that he just heard Murdock call Peck _Faceman. _What the hell was that about?

Hesitant to interrogate the pilot before he had recaptured his wayward lieutenant, Hannibal stared at Murdock for a long moment. If Peck and Murdock knew each other, then it probably wasn't just a coincidence that the pilot had been assigned to their team. Damn, Peck was good—better than Hannibal had imagined.

"Yeah, that'd be great," he finally answered, his voice steely cold.

Murdock must have noted the change in Hannibal's tone and taken it as a warning. Smile gone, his eyes seemed to be searching the colonel for answers, but, clearly finding none, he shrugged and turned to lead the way.

They hadn't gone far before Hannibal's impatience got the better of him; he_ had_ to know what was going on. "How exactly do you know Lieutenant Peck?"

There was a long pause, and, although he couldn't see the captain's face as they walked, he could hear the fond remembrance laced in the man's voice.

"We met in Da Nang," he offered, "…back when Face—I…uh… mean Lieutenant Peck—was still stationed there. He seemed to have a knack for getting into trouble and, somehow, I always seemed to be around to bail him out."

It was a slightly vauge answer but better than nothing. Hannibal carefully chose his next question."What's with the nickname?"

"Face? Well, the nurses in Da Nang gave him that. He could talk cheese away from a rat and it would thank him later, so those gals in uniform didn't have a chance against him. They wised up after a while and realized that the only way they were safe was if they avoided him altogether. They'd all scramble when they saw '_the face'_ coming their way, and pretty soon the name stuck."

Yeah, that sounded like Peck alright.

Realizing they were headed toward the hospital complex, Hannibal slowed. "Where exactly is Peck at?"

Murdock glanced over his shoulder at the colonel. "Why, he's in there," he said, pointing toward one of the hooches in the complex. "He's been offering comfort to the wounded during his downtime."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "For the last forty-eight hours?"

There was a snort of laughter that almost escaped from the captain before he regained his composure.

Turning away quickly, probably to hide his surprise, Murdock's answer lacked confidence. "Um…yeah?"

Trailing behind the captain, Hannibal smiled. Now this he _had_ to see.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The hooch, which had been recently vacated, stank of jungle rotten feet. Face sighed; he had scammed far better places in the past, but time hadn't been on his side. Plus, nurse…ah…uh…was it Cindy or Candy? Damn that one pesky vowel. Well, whatever her name was, she didn't seem to mind the smell.

Dark, delicately curved lashes batted playfully across her vibrant green eyes—sending a shiver of anticipation sparking through him. The atmosphere might have been lacking, but all that _really_ mattered was that they were alone.

Courtesy of his talents and connections, the scent of a posh Parisian lavender shampoo lingered in her auburn hair; he leaned closer, taking in more of her sweet aroma. The simple fragrance mingled with the warmth radiating from her made him want to whimper. Instead, he offered her his best, most dazzling smile.

Yeah, Colonel Smith was probably going to string him up for being AWOL for so long, but for now…

"Oh Temp," she squealed, slightly pushing him back to take another bite of her sundae. "You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble. I can't believe you got us ice cream!"

With effort, he held his cringe in. Why was it that she was gorgeous beyond all reason but had a voice like Olive Oyl? And how did she manage to make every _single_ syllable a decibel louder than the last? This had to be a cruel cosmic joke. Maybe it was some sort of karma for all the lousy stunts he pulled on the nuns when he was a kid.

A contented sigh escaped from her, causing Face to flinch. Nervously, he watched her mouth, waiting for the inevitably horrendous moment when she would again speak.

"This is _so_ good!" She raised a gooey spoonful of semi-melted ice cream up to his face. "Temp, are you _sure_ you don't want some?"

Holding his seemingly genuine smile in place had turned into an excruciating task. Good God, how much ice cream could the woman eat? More importantly, why had he thought _she'd_ make a nice last hurrah before Hannibal tracked him down? Sure the body was nice, but there was only crazy under the hood.

"No, I'm fine, thanks," he answered softly, as he eyed her carefully, reevaluating his desire.

Upon hearing his polite decline, she hastily crammed the spoonful of liquidy dessert into her mouth—smacking, slurping and groaning as she savored the sugary treat.

Face couldn't help himself— his suave demeanor faltered. He grimaced as a thin trail of dark syrup slowly dribbled down her chin, unsure if her overall sexiness outweighed the grotesqueness of her etiquette any longer.

"_So good…" _She whispered, revealing heavily chocolate-coated teeth.

He gagged a little, but, luckily, she was still so engrossed in her dessert that she failed to notice.

"You know," She twirled her spoon before sinking it into the bowl for another helping. "Matt never does anything this nice for me. Well, at least he never _did_."

_Damn._ She was back to talking about her ex. Face reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp, clean handkerchief. Seeing as he had no time left to rustle up a new date, there was no way in hell he was giving up on this gal yet. However, before he tried to make his move, he _had_ to get her cleaned up.

"You've just got a little something…" He reached out and gently dabbed her face with the cloth, but, finding the sticky mess difficult to remove, he soon started scrubbing.

As she giggled and fidgeted in his grasp, he glanced down, eyeing the buttons on her blouse—not one was undone. Well, he could solve that little problem.

"Hey." He stopped wiping her face; his tone was carefully controlled, serious. "You know you're too good for your old boyfriend, Max, right?"

"Matt," she corrected, and then, brow creasing, her eyes met his. "Do you really think so?" The words came out in a breathless whisper, laced with hope and longing.

Face let the thinness hint of a smile grace his face; sometimes, the key to a successful seduction was in creating the proper distraction. Staring deep into her eyes, he slowly maneuvered the spoon from her hand and set it, along with her bowl, aside.

"I do." He answered—his voice soft as he pressed closer to her; she was so entranced by his gaze that she still had yet to perceive the subtle change.

Then, as if on cue, her breathing fell into synch with his. Slowly wrapping his arms around her, Face watched in subdued excitement as all the elements of passion fell into place.

Lust filled eyes stared up at him, pleading for his touch. Her finely curved jaw clenched and then slowly relaxed—her lips parting ever so slightly. Chests pressed close, he could feel the rapid beating of her heart and knew she could feel his.

A tiny tremble ran through her body as she hesitantly began to lean forward, slowly drawing her lips closer to his. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head and leaned down, eager to close the gap between them.

Then, just as he felt the first warm flush of her lips as they brushed up against his, the hooch door crashed open—followed immediately by a child's voice shouting, "Moo-Dog! Moo-Dog!"

For a split second, he couldn't tell which had startled him more, the unexpected arrival of the gangly Vietnamese boy or the fact that the nurse was screaming shrilly into his ear. In the end, he figured it was a combination of the two.

After Cindy, or Candy or whoever she was had calmed down, she awkwardly scooted away from Face and offered the new arrival a tentative smile.

"What does he want?" she asked through clenched teeth—as if the kid wouldn't notice she'd spoken since her mouth hadn't opened. Ok, so maybe the gal was a little dense.

The kid's sly grin slid from Face to the woman; his gaze lingering momentarily on her cleavage—which had been exposed when Face's nimble fingers had ever-so-stealthily undone three buttons on her top during their embrace; she probably hadn't even realized it yet.

After a brief blush brightened the kid's cheeks, he turned his attention back to Face. "Moo-dog say go-go," he stated, clearly expecting to be understood.

Face frowned. What the hell was that supposed to…uh….ah...wait…_damn. _This had to be Murdock's signal. Man, the guy sure knew how to ruin a good time.

"Yeah, I got it, thanks." Face smiled, trying to wave the boy off, but the kid was having nothing of it.

"Moo-dog say go!"

_Shit._ The colonel must've been on the move if he had found Murdock already.

"I've got to go…" He closed his eyes, deciding which name to pick, but in the end, he chose the safest route. "…honey." Then, hopefully, he added. "Maybe I can get a rain-check?"

She smiled. "Maybe."

"Moo-dog say…"

"Go," Face laughed, "yeah, I know." He stood, suddenly really regretting he didn't know the nurse's name. "I'll be seeing you then…" Ah hell, why not go for it; he had a fifty-fifty chance. "…Cindy."

Her expression darkened. "Cheryl," she replied, inviting gaze gone.

_Damn—_ that was too bad. Writing this date off as a complete failure, he gave her one final wave before marching out of the hooch. There was no use wasting words here; it was obvious he wasn't going to have a lick of luck with her anymore. Plus, he had a hospital to get to and a colonel to con.

He chose the least visible route to the infirmary; it would've been a shame to run into Colonel Smith and Murdock. However, a couple of sergeants did managed to stop him, eager to find out if he had obtained certain items for them yet—which he hadn't. Thankfully, the conversations ended abruptly when they learned he didn't have the goods.

By the time he reached his destination, he half expected to find the colonel and the captain already there, waiting for him; fortunately, they were not.

Strolling into the medical hooch, he gave the nurse on duty a warm smile. She had a pudgy, pleasant face and a little more girth in her midsection than he usually went for, but, with her curly hair up in pigtails, she was still kind of 'girl next door' pretty.

"Hi darling," he cooed, watching her smile shyly back at him. "Did you bring me a book like I asked for—something a hard-ass colonel would've never read?"

She scurried across the room, retrieved an item and then timidly returned. Dark eyes nervously set on Face, she handed the book over.

"_Little Women?" _He chuckled. Well, Smith probably hadn't read _that_. "It's perfect, thanks." He looked over, taking in the giddy tension straining her expression.

Seeing him staring, she blushed and looked blankly down at her feet. "I…I think you should read to Private O'Donnell." Her voice was as smooth as silk—he could've listened to her talk all day.

"O'Donnell's willing to play along?" He asked, wondering what he'd have to get the man for his cooperation.

A tender smile reached her ruby lips. "He's heavily sedated. He won't wake up."

_Dear lord, _Face actually considered marrying the woman on the spot. She'd just made his life so much easier.

"You're a peach!" He glanced around. "Which bed is he in…uh…ah…"

"My name is Cindy," she answered, still smiling. "And he's right over there."

Face spun away quickly, to conceal his surprise. _Cindy? _What were the odds of that? Her soft sigh sounded behind him as he stepped away—moving toward O'Donnell. As soon as he sat at the wounded man's bedside, he heard the door to the hooch open. That had to be Smith and Murdock.

Positioning himself with his back to the door, Face took in a deep, even breath. The last forty-eight hours had all worked up to this. Slowly exhaling, he opened the book and began to quietly read aloud.

He could hear the muted footsteps of the men as they drew closer, and it took everything in him not to spin around. Without really focusing on the words, he read in a vacantly chipper voice—it was a book about women…how heavy could the topics really be?

"Lieutenant Peck." There was a slight hint of disgust in the way Smith said his name.

"Oh…" Face glanced up and gave a weak smile. "I didn't see you come in, sir."

Murdock stood behind Smith, his tall frame hunched—brown eyes seemingly already imploring Face for forgiveness.

The colonel frowned. "Yeah…like hell you didn't. Where've you been?"

Ok, it was time to give the performance of his life. "I've been here the whole time. I know I should have checked in but…"

"Cut the crap, lieutenant, I know you haven't been here the whole time."

Mouth open, Face gaped at the colonel; he had expected this, but he had to play his part. "I-I…well…you can even ask Cindy." He pointed at the nurse, but found her nervously shifting around in the far corner; she wasn't going to be any help—not against an irate lieutenant-colonel.

"Now tell me…" Smith said, a slight smirk sliding onto his face. "…why did you just read that page with so much delight? I, myself, always thought it was the unhappiest part of the book—with the death and all."

Holy hell_—_Smith had read _Little Women?_ That he hadn't expected.

"But…" Smith continued. "I guess that's not important right now. What is important is that I found you…with the help of your friend, Captain Murdock. It seems you two met back in Da Nang?"

This next part wasn't going to be pleasant. Dread bubbled in Face's stomach as he glanced over at Murdock. The captain looked miserable and Face was about to make it even worse. He hoped the man would forgive him later.

Peck slowly got to his feet, his gaze still fixed on Murdock. "I can't believe you told him we knew each other! Isn't that exactly what I told you not to do? All you had to do was point him in my direction, how could you mess that up?"

"Aw man…" Murdock's voice was soft, lacking the anger Face would have expected from anyone else. "You didn't tell me it was forty-eight hours you was gone for Face…"

"It was the nickname, wasn't it?" Face whined; damn, it was hard watching the hurt in Murdock's expression, but this would all be worth it in the end. "He heard you call me by it, didn't he? I told you…"

"You knew Williams' was short, didn't you?" Hannibal said, cutting Face off. "And you _somehow _managed to get your friend assigned to our team for this next mission—hoping that he'd impress me and I'd keep him on as our pilot. But you didn't want me to know why or how the captain got here, so Murdock wasn't supposed to let it slip that you two knew each other, right?"

"I didn't think you'd give him a chance if you knew we were friends," Face answered sullenly, and judging by the look Smith gave him, his assumption had been correct.

There was a long moment of silence. Smith's gaze kept creeping from Face to Murdock and then back again.

"Peck," Smith said slowly. "I want a full account of where you've been for the last forty-eight hours."

Peck blinked. "Um…right now?"

"No," Smith snipped, "I want it next Thursday—of course I want it right now!"

Clenching his jaw, Face glared at Smith before turning his gaze to Murdock.

The pilot's large brown eyes were pleading for him to cooperate with the colonel; Face could see it and he was sure Smith could see it as well. Gradually, Face relaxed and gave the captain a feeble smile—which the man quickly returned. Everything was going according to plan. Still, it was too bad he couldn't have let Murdock in on the real con, but the performance wouldn't have been nearly as good if he had.

Finally, with a sigh, Face turned his attention back to Smith. "I had to do a lot of leg work to get Murdock assigned to us—that ate up most of the first twenty-four hours. Then…" He paused, making sure his hesitation was noted by the colonel before he continued. "I scavenged up a few supplies and made friends with those marines from C-company."

"The guys that want to maul BA?" The confusion on Smith's face was absolutely priceless.

"Well, after BA knocked their lieutenant unconscious about ten seconds after we got to Phan Rang, I can't say I blame them much…but I've made nice with them. With enough booze, cigarettes and girly magazines, their anger has subsided. BA is no longer a walking dead-man."

Though he obviously tried to hide it, a slight smirk edged onto the colonel's face. "Anything else you'd like to fess up to?"

Face grinned. "I had a date, but I'd rather not go into details—if you know what I mean." He immediately regretted the last comment as he spied Cindy dejectedly staring at him from across the room; she quickly turned away, busying herself with a patient.

"Did you really think that I was going to buy that you stayed here for the last forty-eight?" Smith asked, and, startled out of his thoughts of Cindy, Face glanced up at the colonel.

"Yeah, I did," Face lied. "I had a lot on my plate. I guess I didn't think this through very well." Hopefully the colonel would believe that—Face had only been with the team for two missions, so he didn't yet have the best read on the CO yet.

Smith seemed to be contemplating his response. His gaze was again shifting from Face to Murdock.

Colonel Smith wasn't stupid; Face knew that at least. This guy needed a little extra finesse to be conned.

Generally, Face would've never shared any details of his wheeling and dealing with a CO, and Smith had to have known that—he had to have recognized the huge leap Face had taken, and the colonel had to be wondering why he had. The only difference this time was Murdock.

From the start, Face had known Murdock would slip; he had known the captain would use his nickname and that the colonel would quickly catch on. He never doubted that Smith would piece together the fact that Face had maneuvered Murdock onto the team.

Being AWOL was all part of the plan. He had to push the boundaries and hope he hadn't gone too far; there was always a chance that Smith would just give up and report him, but he was willing to bet that wouldn't happen. Plus, getting Baracus out of hot water was a nice way to buffer Smith's anger. If the con worked, Smith would assume that Murdock had softened Face up, and that would be all the more reason to keep the pilot around in the future.

Smith eyed Face carefully. "We have a meeting with Morrison at seventeen hundred hours, but I'm sure Captain Murdock already informed you of that."

"Yes, sir." Face replied, still uncertain of his fate.

"I don't want you pulling any more crap behind my back. Come and talk with me first, understand?"

Obediently, Face nodded. "Yes, sir."

Hannibal's gaze swept across both men. "You're dismissed."

Face turned to leave, but then paused; he couldn't go—not without knowing for sure if his plan had worked. "Uh…Colonel Smith?"

"Call me Hannibal, all my men do. I'll see you and Murdock at seventeen hundred." Smith replied. "Oh, and, Face, don't be late."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

No one spoke to him, but he didn't much care. Actually, BA preferred to be left alone. Even in a room chock-full of guys, he could still manage to remain very solitary. Drowning out their banter and laughter, he settled onto his cot and unfolded the letter from his mama.

She loved and missed him—she wrote that every time, just to remind him. A tightness settled into his throat as he eyed the looping cursive on the page, picturing her seated at her little wooden desk writing out each loving word. He prayed she was doing alright—she said she was, but he didn't know if he believed her. Their neighborhood was tough. What would she do without him there to take care of her?

His letters back were always short; he felt bad about that, but there wasn't much he wanted to tell her about 'Nam. Mainly, he just wrote back how much he loved and missed her too.

A boisterous round of laughter sounded, louder than before. Irritated, BA peered over at the table in the corner. Lt. Ray Brenner was still there, playing poker with Sgt. Casey Callaghan and Sgt. Dominic Rodrigo. From the looks of it, Ray had just taken Rodrigo to the cleaners.

Unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, Ray was beaming from ear to ear. "Straight beats your trip-kings, Dom. Looks like I take the pot," he hooted, reaching over to take the pile of cigarettes—which was amusing seeing as he was the only one of the three that didn't smoke.

"No way!" Rodrigo bolted up, toppling his chair to the floor. "I was sure you were bluffing. You haven't had a hand all day!" He leaned forward, running a hand through his short, dark hair as he stared incredulously down at Brenner's cards.

"Well," Ray laughed, "that just meant I was due. You should've known better." He glanced over at BA and winked, but, spotting the man's already bruising eye, BA turned away.

Colonel Smith was going to blow a gasket when he found out about Brenner's shiner. BA frowned. He hadn't meant to hit Ray—Callaghan had been his target. The little red-headed weasel had been poking fun of him pouring over his mama's letters. Hell, it might have been some harmless teasing, but BA wasn't having any of it. Callaghan would've gotten what was coming to him if Ray hadn't stepped in the way.

Man, Smith had specifically told BA that he couldn't punch any more officers. Callaghan was just a sergeant—so he didn't count, right? Of course, since he'd slugged Ray instead, he'd inadvertently gone against the colonel's orders.

BA sighed, folded his mama's letter back up and tucked in it into his shirt pocket.

When it all came down to it, he wasn't even sure why he was on this team anyway. He'd been on the verge of getting court martialed for nearly breaking his Company Commander's jaw—he would've probably ended up with a BCD, but then Colonel Smith swooped in, worked some magic, and got him moved to his team. Why the colonel had taken an interest in him, BA hadn't a clue. He was good at fixing things—real good— but plenty of guys could do that.

Whatever Smith's reasons were, BA wasn't going to question him. There was no way he could have explained a Bad Conduct Discharge to his mama. She would've died of shame.

And, for once, it was nice to be under a commander that wasn't a total shithead. Hell, that's half the reason BA was always getting in trouble; there were too many green officers looking to push their weight around. Smith was different; the man had nothing to prove—he was already a bit of a legend.

With a loud sigh, Rodrigo flopped down on the cot next to BA's. It was rare for them to interact; Rodrigo, or Dom as the other guys called him, seemed wary of BA—which was good. The more people that avoided him, the less people there were to piss him off.

"I can't believe he got me," Dom whined, his eyes darting to BA. "He's not even going to smoke them, and I know like hell he's not going to give them back either."

BA glared back, but Dom hardly seemed to notice.

"Now, I'm gonna have to see if Peck can get me another carton." Dom paused to chuckle as he folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. "That is if the colonel ever finds him."

Templeton Peck—BA frowned as he thought of the man. Smith must have had some kind of bizarre affinity for misfits, because about a month after BA came to the team, the colonel dragged Peck in as well. As far as BA could tell, the lieutenant was himself about to get a court martial and probably a dismissal for his various unauthorized '_requisitions_.'

The logic might have been screwy, but BA hated Peck for one simple reason—the man was too damn likeable. In fact, Peck was one of the few guys BA considered a friend—which infuriated him. He didn't want no 'Nam friends—especially if they were officers. He just wanted to do his time and get out. Experience had already taught him that it was the guy you befriended who ended up dead on the next op. So, having Peck weasel his way into a friendship simply pissed BA off.

On Peck's first mission with the team, as soon as they were in a hot zone, the lieutenant stumbled out of their jeep, fell on his face and promptly lost his helmet. BA had been sure he was gonna lose another friend that day, but that wasn't the case. Ray, the team's Detachment Technician—second in command to Smith, hauled Peck to his feet, plopped his own helmet on the guy's head and, with a wink and a smile, pointed him in the direction of the action.

"Ah, speak of the devil…" Dom hissed, and, startled out of his thoughts, BA glanced up to find Smith strolling into the room.

The colonel's gaze settled briefly on Ray before quickly shifting to BA.

_Damn._

"And what exactly happened to Ray's eye?" Smith snapped.

Ray was swift to get to his feet, offering a lopsided grin to the colonel. "Ah, Hannibal…I just walked into a door was all—a really angry, big, mean door."

"Is that so?" Smith kept his steely gaze on BA.

BA shrugged. He wasn't gonna lie about it. "I hit him, sir."

Smacking a palm to his forehead, Ray groaned. "Damn it, BA. I had this one for you. I really think Hannibal would've bought the angry door story."

"Why'd you hit Ray?" Smith asked, arms crossed—totally ignoring Brenner's attempts to lighten the mood. "I thought Ray was one of the few officers you liked."

"Didn't mean to hit him—was aiming for Callaghan." Ba mumbled; Smith was about the only officer he'd ever known that could actually make him feel as guilty as if he were being scolded by his mama.

A long tired sigh rolled out of the colonel. "And why did you want to hit Callaghan?"

"He was making fun of the letters from my mama."

Callaghan nearly fell off his chair at BA's reply. "Hey! Now that's not exactly…"

"Stow it Cal," Hannibal barked. "Just leave Baracus alone when he's reading his letters, ok?"

Callaghan scowled at BA but nodded. The red-headed medic was hardly intimidating. With his freckles, spectacles and large protruding ears, the guy looked like a character out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

"And…" BA said, surprising even himself that he dared to speak up again. "You said not to hit any more _officers_."

For a moment, the room went silent, and BA could feel everyone's gaze settling on him. He swallowed hard, staring down at his calloused hands. Maybe he should have kept quiet.

It was Ray who started laughing first. He was soon joined by Dom and finally, though somewhat reluctantly at first, Callaghan. BA glanced up—surprised to see that even Smith was chuckling.

Whatever tension the colonel had been holding seemed to ease out of him. "You got me, Baracus. I did give you a little bit wiggle room there, but, as of now, I don't want you tenderizing any officers _or_ enlisted men, understand?"

BA nodded.

"Hey," Peck called out, sauntering into the room with a lanky looking fellow in a flight suit hot on his heels. "No offense BA, but I like the idea of muzzling those fists or yours. When did that order go into effect?"

Ray sat back in his seat, slouching as he eyed Peck. "Well, you'd have known about it sooner if you hadn't gone missing for the last_ two_ days."

"Ah…uh…yeah…about that…" Stumbling on his words, Peck quickly sidestepped and gestured at the guy who had come in with him. "This is Captain H.M. Murdock. He's going to be our pilot for this death mission Morrison is sending us on."

BA got to his feet, glaring at Peck's skinny friend. "New pilot? What happened to Williams?" BA didn't much like any pilot, but at least Williams wasn't no crazy fool trying to pull off stunts that was gonna get them all killed. He didn't like the looks of this new guy.

"Yeah, what about Williams?" Dom chimed in. "He's saved our asses plenty of times in the past."

"I vote for Williams." Callaghan added, though he seemed far more interested in his cards than the conversation at hand.

"I'm not sure if you were all listening or not…" A concoction of amusement and concern tinged Ray's voice. "…but you all heard Peck say _death mission_, right?"

"So," Dom grinned, "more of the usual shit then?"

Ray opened his mouth, as if to protest, but seemed unable to find the right words. Finally, he simply shrugged and replied, "Yep, exactly like the usual."

"Face, I like these guys," Murdock said, his eyes gleaming as he watched the team. "They're crazy."

"Who you callin' crazy, fool?" BA bustled forward, standing toe to toe with the new guy.

Murdock didn't flinch; he just stood there with a goofy grin on his face. "I'm sorry; I didn't catch your name yet."

"That's Sergeant BA Baracus," Face answered with a nervous chuckle, as his eyes darted from BA to Murdock.

"It stands for Bad Attitude," Ray added, pointing to his own black eye.

"Ah, BA?" Murdock said, leaning back ever so slightly so he could extend a hand to BA. "Glad to meet ya!"

BA glared at the man. Fool pilot was gonna get them all killed, he could already tell. After letting one deep growl rumble out, BA turned away and skulked back to his cot.

"Don't mind him." Face's voice seemed to relax a tick as BA retreated. "He's just a little cranky before big missions. He'll warm up to you…eventually…maybe."

Callaghan set down his cards, obviously finally realizing there was no way in hell they were going to finish the game. He frowned over at Peck. "Did I just hear that guy call you Face?"

"You guys can commence with the chitchat later," Smith said, instantly drawing everyone's attention. "Right now, I want you all to get your gear ready. We have a briefing at seventeen hundred, and, if I know Morrison, we'll be lifting off soon after that." He drew in a deep breath, eyes scanning each of his men. "I'm not gonna lie; this one's going to be a doozy. Write your letters now." And, with that, he turned and trudged out of the room.

BA felt it then—that raw, inescapable fear. The mood had quickly turned somber as each man retreated to their own areas to write their letters. Only the quiet murmur of conversation between Murdock and Face sounded as they sat at the abandoned poker table; neither man seemed interested in writing home.

It was in these moments that BA's mind drew a dull, agonizing blank. What could he write? What if this really was his last letter home? He didn't want to think about it; he didn't want to write it, but since Smith had suggested the letters, chances were that they weren't all coming back from this mission.

Pen in hand, BA stared down at the blank page before him, willing the words to come. Slowly, he started writing.

_Dear Mama,_

_I got your last letter. Don't let Uncle Herb fix the sink. He'll only make it worse. Call Rob in B-12. He owes me a favor and he's a very good plumber. He'll fix the leak and get the garbage disposal working again._

_I'm sorry I'm not there to fix it myself. I should be there, I know. _

_I miss you so much and I think of you every day. I can only hope I'm doing you proud. I love you._

_~BA_

Besides the part about the sink, it was nearly indistinguishable from every other letter he'd written home. He thought briefly of rewriting it but decided not to. He wouldn't do any better. After folding the letter, he placed it in an envelope and addressed it. Hopefully, she'd never know how hard of a letter that had been for him to write—how he had thought that maybe it really was his last.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

After advising that all letters home be taken care of, Hannibal hustled outside. He couldn't stomach seeing those looks from his men—those fleeting, desperate glances that begged him to do his best, to keep them alive. But, the grim actuality was that he couldn't save them all; if not on this mission then on another, he'd lose someone—it was inevitable. He was no longer naïve enough to believe his team would manage to remain unscathed; experience had since taught him otherwise. Rolland and Mills hadn't been the first men to die on his watch, and they doubtlessly wouldn't be the last.

Reaching into his pocket, he fumbled around until he caught hold of a cigar. In one solid motion, he brought it to his mouth, clenched it between his teeth and had a lighter hovering beneath its tip. It lit, and he grimaced as he drew in the first warm breath of tobacco. The cigar was cheap and tasted like shit, but it was better than nothing.

"That bad, huh?"

Without looking up, Hannibal grinned. He hadn't heard the man coming, but it had become a sort of ritual for Ray to search him out before a major op. They wouldn't necessarily talk about the mission; hell, they might not talk much at all. Most times they just stood, thinking and keeping each other company in those few moments of peace before the urgency to busy themselves with preparations set in.

Ray leaned back against a wooden post, his hazel eyes settled on Hannibal, but his gaze didn't make the colonel squirm. Brenner wasn't much older than the other guys on the team, but, despite his light-hearted antics, he had a calm inner strength that had aged him well beyond his years—that's probably why he made such a damn fine LT. Hopefully, in three months' time—when Ray's tour was up, Peck would be able to fill the man's shoes. So far, Hannibal wasn't sure if _Face_ was up to the task.

"Yeah, it's that bad," Hannibal sighed, exhaling a lungful of sweet cigar smoke. He was already dreading the day Ray went home; the team wouldn't be the same.

For a while, they stood quietly, neither obviously feeling the need to combat the silence—there was no reason; it wasn't awkward or imposing.

Eventually, a faint, cheerful whistling alerted them to the arrival of Captain Murdock. Hands in his pockets, the pilot strolled over and then hunkered down on a nearby crate. His happy whistles died away as he grinned over at the two men.

Chomping down a little too hard on his cigar, Hannibal waited for Murdock to speak—to press for information that the colonel wasn't ready to share. He frowned. This wasn't the time for twenty questions; this was the time for enjoying one last shitty cigar before he had to take responsibility for the lives of _his_ men. His annoyance at this intrusion surprised him; he hadn't ever realized how comforting he found this quiet time before.

Ray, for his part, was staring incredulously at the pilot. Slowly, his gaze shifted to Hannibal, a slight grin adorning his '_would you_ _get a load of this guy' _expression.

As his tension mounted, Hannibal shifted uneasily—desperately craving his last moments of respite. It was then that Murdock scanned the colonel, his eyes finally settling on the cigar.

_Damn, _that's what the kid wanted—a smoke. Hannibal only had two left, one of which he was damn sure going to save for after the mission, but the other…

He sighed. About to ask the captain if he wanted a cigar, he paused in bewilderment as Murdock started zealously pawing through the pockets on his flight suit. Whatever he was looking for, he found and, large toothy grin again adorning his face, he quickly leaned over extending a clenched hand toward Ray— a slender white shape was just visible between the pilot's fingers. To Hannibal's surprise, the lieutenant took the offered item.

Knowing that Ray didn't smoke—his dad had died of lung cancer—Hannibal had to wonder what the hell Murdock had offered over. Curiosity beat out his irritation as he studied the captain.

Paper crinkled before Murdock's hand darted to his mouth. For a moment, Hannibal thought a cigarette dangled from the pilot's lips, but, as he peered closer, he realized it was the white stick of a sucker. Murdock's cheek bulged holding the hard candy. Gradually, the man reclined on the crate—his left leg swinging leisurely back and forth as it dangled off the side. There was a contentment that spread across the pilot's face as he peered upward, studying the few wisps of clouds hanging in the afternoon sky.

Hannibal glanced over at Ray, intrigued to find his lieutenant happily smacking away at a lollipop. Looking sheepishly up, Brenner smiled and then shrugged; well, what did Hannibal expect—the man did have a hell of a sweet tooth.

Letting the wash of stillness settle over him, Hannibal relaxed. Obviously, Murdock wasn't there to disturb the moment. He took in another lungful of warmth from his cigar.

Five minutes later, Hannibal knew they had to start moving. He snubbed out his cigar and sighed. So much for R&R—if they were lucky, they might get their week back after the mission.

"Ray, go check on the men; make sure they're ready. Then, take Peck and go to the ammo dump to load up." Hannibal was trying to stick Peck with Ray as much as possible, in the slim chance some of the man's leadership skills would rub off on the newbie.

"I'm on it," Ray answered before crunching down the last of his candy and heading inside.

"And…" Hannibal turned to look over at Murdock—who had sat up, quietly watching the exchange so far. "I need you to go and…"

"Change into fatigues?" Murdock asked, glancing down at his flight suit. "That might be a bit more jungle friendly, yeah?"

"Exactly," Hannibal answered, turning away toward his hooch; he still had to get his own gear ready.

"You know…" Murdock's voice was low, thoughtful, causing the colonel to pause. "I was kind of glad that the higher ups didn't want me to bring my crew on this mission."

There was a pause, and Hannibal had to wonder if the man was finished, but he eventually continued.

"It's hard…" The captain's face was oddly serious as he stared at Hannibal. "…to know you are responsible for their lives, isn't it?"

Startled by the insight, Hannibal chose his words carefully. "And yours."

With a smirk, Murdock nodded before he slowly stood and started to stroll away. His melodic voice calling out, "Unless we're in the air, and then I'm responsible for you."

Watching the pilot walk away, Hannibal grinned. Yep, he was going to work out just fine.

* * *

><p>Dressed in his fatigues, Murdock sat listening to Morrison give the briefing. The rest of the team seemed to be soaking in every word, but it was more difficult for Murdock to pay attention; most of the info had been given to him hours after the chopper went missing. Hell, he knew more than Morrison did, but, for appearances, he had to play along and act as if this were all new to him.<p>

"The chopper went down at oh-nine hundred hours doing dust-offs." Morrison read from the report in front of him.

Murdock frowned. The time was right, but he knew for a fact that the chopper hadn't been doing dust-offs.

Because of the sensitivity of the mission, he'd known the briefing would be full of holes and misinformation, but it still bothered him. Hannibal's team was one of the best; they deserved better. Still, nothing vital was missing from the report—if it was then, CIA involvement or not, Murdock wouldn't keep his mouth shut. If these men were going to risk their lives, they had every right to know what they were getting themselves into.

He glanced over at Face, surprised to see the man earnestly listening to Morrison, and he felt a stab of guilt. Fooling Faceman had been easy; the lieutenant, for as good as his cons were, had a blind spot for Murdock. The fact that Face had already been pushing to get Murdock on their team had helped, but, in the end, Peck hadn't had much of a hand in getting him as Hannibal's new pilot. Still, Murdock didn't have the heart to tell Face that he really hadn't just pulled off the biggest scam of his life; instead, he opted to let that secret be. Hopefully it wouldn't inflate Face's ego too much.

Morrison drolled on about coordinates—which they had been waiting to confirm before sending Smith's team out. Having verified the exact location of the chopper, they were now ready to strike.

Murdock stifled a yawn. Damn, he should have caught a nap earlier in the day, but he had wanted to check the chopper rotation to see who was going to fly them out. Plus, he didn't want to miss the matinee. The kids seemed to really like his rendition of _Snow White._

"There are reports of heavy enemy activity in the area…"

Well, at least that much was true. It made Murdock wonder if the Viet Cong had realized who they had captured. Hell, the agent, Sergeant Stinson, would have been hauled somewhere far away for questioning already if that was the case. Murdock's job, one which he was _not_ to disclose to any of his new teammates, was to confirm Stinson's location and condition; if possible, he was to attempt a rescue as well. Sources said the man was killed in the crash, but confirmation was needed. Whatever Stinson knew, the CIA didn't want leaked.

For the better part of the last year, Stinson had inserted himself as a gunner on various choppers—which was how Murdock knew him. Though not an agent himself, Murdock had been recruited to fly a couple of high profile, classified missions for the CIA in the past, so they weren't hesitant to call him up in their current time of need. Apparently, they didn't want to chance losing another full-fledged agent in the field, but they were also anxious to get someone out there who could properly id Stinson. Plus, getting the chopper back would be a feather in their cap.

Still, the whole story about Intel wanting the chopper back intact was just a cover—a lousy one at that. Quite frankly, Murdock was surprised Hannibal hadn't seen right through it. But, then again, maybe the man had; he was a little hard to gauge.

Morrison's voice rose a little, startling Murdock out of his daydreams. "You leave in one hour, dismissed."

"You ready for this?" Face asked, suddenly appearing beside Murdock.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Murdock answered with a grin, hoping that was true.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

It was ten minutes into the flight. The steady, rhythmic _whump-whump_ of the chopper's blades muffled all other sound, so, to be heard, Face leaned over and shouted at the man nearest him—which just happened to be BA.

"Hey there good-looking" Face called, essentially screaming into sergeant's ear. Then, with a twang of sarcastic seduction layering his voice, he added, "you come here often?"

He knew straightaway that his attempt at comic relief had been horribly miscalculated; BA tensed, casting over a deep, angry scowl.

_Oh shit!_

Murdock, BA and Face all sat on the rearward facing bench directly behind the cockpit on the UH-1 transport chopper or Slick as it was commonly known. The bench typically held four men, but since they were running this mission light, they had a little extra elbow room.

Across from them, Hannibal, Ray, Dom and Callaghan were seated on the forward facing bench. Though the others couldn't have heard Face's comment, they seemed able to sense the impending doom radiating off BA, and they watched with sheer fascination. Rather than offer any support, Hannibal smirked, looking content simply enjoying the entertainment.

Sheepishly, Face eyed the irate sergeant. There was no doubt about it, with his full gear on and an M-16 clenched in his beefy hands, BA looked like a Viet Cong's worst nightmare—or, at that moment, maybe Face's. However, the big man kept still, wedged firmly between Face and Murdock, glaring daggers at Peck.

Shrinking back slightly, Face offered a toothy grin that he hoped the sergeant took as an apology. Hell, there was no way he wanted BA pissed at him when they were going into the bush—not that he thought BA wouldn't still save his ass when he got into a jam, but it was best not to chance it.

Staring down at his jungle boots, still feeling the pressure of the heated gaze, Face let one long, low sigh escape him. He'd only been trying to get Bosco to relax a bit; drenched in sweat, the sergeant looked like he was either about to pass out or blow chunks, and they still had at least a good hour of flight time left.

It didn't make sense. How could someone have a fear of flying in the Airborne? It was almost pathetic, but the stoic way in which BA handled his phobia was something Face admired. BA had_ never _refused to board a chopper.

A sudden movement caught Face's attention and, fearing retribution for his ill-conceived comment, he quickly glanced over. No fist was aimed in his direction, instead he found Murdock craning his lanky frame toward BA.

"You know…" Murdock shouted over the din of the chopper, "…statistically people are more likely to die in car crashes than in plane or chopper crashes."

Suspicion filled BA's eyes as he stared the captain down, but, slowly, as he seemingly poured over the statement in his head, Face could see the sergeant's tightly clenched jaw relax slightly.

"A' course I don't think they took 'Nam into consideration when they did the study," Murdock added, his brow wrinkled but a gleam of mischief was still evident in his eyes. "…I'm guessing it's the opposite here."

Face quickly snorted down his laughter, but, upon seeing BA's big hands tremble and the profound fear flood his typically stern face, he frowned over at Murdock.

The happy twinkle had left the captain's gaze as he studied the large lump of terrified man beside him. Face knew Murdock enjoyed a good joke, but he was far from cruel.

For as much as his girth would allow, BA seemed to cower in on himself. His pinched face was turned down, eyes unfocused—staring blankly at the vibrating floor beneath his feet, but obviously seeing nothing.

"Hey," Though delivered in a shout, Murdock's voice was gentle, and BA slowly, hesitantly glanced up.

For a moment, Murdock just stared, keeping the big guy's gaze locked in his own. The pilot's demeanor changed. It wasn't just seriousness conveyed in the man's expression; it was a sense of leadership—of unyielding empathy and loyalty that most men can barely fathom let alone exude. It reminded Face of Colonel Smith.

"The pilot of this bird, Captain Robert Alan Thompson, has three kids a wife and a golen retriever named Spud waiting for him in Gadsden, Alabama." Murdock paused, his dark eyes scanning the sergeant's face. "He is one of the most cautious men I know—he made a promise to his family that he'd get home in one piece. He's a good man, and there is no way he's gonna break that promise to his family, understand? There ain't no way this bird is going down; ol' Robert up there won't let it."

Staring the captain in the eyes, BA nodded. Gradually, his stern expression returned as he looked away—all traces of fear departed.

Face stared in disbelief. _Damn_, Murdock was good.

Afraid to upset the delicate balance keeping BA's nerves in check, Face opted to keep silent for the rest of the ride, but it was a challenge. His own anxiety was kicking up and he desperately wanted to combat it with some pointless banter.

Smith's missions had never proven to be cakewalks—especially when the colonel did his damnedest to say they would be. Fortunately, Hannibal hadn't tried reassuring them that this outing would be '_a piece of cake_,' but Face still felt on edge. There was some vital piece of information evading him; he could feel it—he kept trying to dig it free, like a stubborn splinter just under the skin, but it was to no avail. Quietly, he mulled over the briefing again.

Morrison had stated that the chopper had gone down ten klicks outside of Dong Xoai; the closest LZ to the crash site was about a klick south, but, with heavy enemy activity in the vicinity, it would be hot. They'd have to hit the ground running. Plus, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot of light left in the day; it really wasn't the optimum time to start a retrieval op, and not one in which their pilot, without the aid of a crew, would have to fly solo out of a rabbit hole in the jungle. Of course, that was if they flew the chopper out at all.

Frustrated, Face sighed. What was he missing?

The more he pondered the op, the more he questioned whether Hannibal had done something to royally piss HQ off. This felt way too much like a suicide run. Was a downed chopper really worth all this? There had to be something more.

He glanced up at the door gunner nearest him. The man was focused; his M-60 at the ready as he leaned out the side door and scanned the jungle below. This mission seemed to have everyone on edge.

A flutter of dread continued to grow in Face's stomach; like clockwork, it wormed its way into his belly before every drop. Once on the ground, he would get his shit together, but there was something about being in transport—not knowing yet what awaited them—that terrified him.

A sickeningly cold sweat tickled his skin, and he drew in a shaky breath. Somewhere in the jungle, Viet Cong were waiting, ready to kill. He knew they were there; they were always there—somewhere. The hidden booby traps, the ambushes, and the possibility of being captured gave him nightmares. He liked to be the man with all the answers, but out there, amidst the fog and thick jungle shrubbery, there was too much unknown. And, there was too much death.

He glanced over at Murdock, eager to gather some courage from the man, but the captain was deeply engaged in a conversation with the chopper's other door gunner. Whatever they spoke of was lost to Face amid the rumble of the blades. He hated how the pulsing of the chopper didn't synch up with the pounding of his heart, so that the flow of blood coursing through him felt confused, out of sorts.

Body relaxed, eyes dancing with some inner delight, Murdock laughed and made wild hand gestures, simulating what Face could only guess was the movements of a chopper as it dove through the sky. Both Murdock and the door gunner were smiling brightly, seemingly sharing some joke that, despite their current circumstances, managed to amuse them.

Face wondered then, while he watched the two, if his friend felt the same cold pull of fear. He had to, right? Uncertainty plagued Face's thoughts, making him shamed by his own fear.

Briefly, Murdock glanced over, his enormous, toothy grin never faltered, but, for a second, Peck saw through the façade. There was a hollowness to the smile—beneath the thin veil of pleasantness, hidden in the depths of his eyes, there was fear. He was just better at hiding it than Face had imagined.

Murdock returned to his story but with less vigor. They were getting close to the LZ.

Face drew in an unsteady breath.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. If he'd known of this mission, he never would have pushed so hard to get Murdock as Hannibal's pilot. Yeah, Murdock was the best; Face knew that—he'd seen the man fly countless times. No one could do what he did. But, he was the best in the sky; this mission was different.

Grounded, would Murdock survive? Face swallowed down that anxiety, burying it deep inside, hoping that he would never have to deal with it again, but, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, that fear was still there. He had countless acquaintances he could spare but few true friends.

Friendship took too much trust, cost too much of himself to invest in someone who might leave him. People came and went in and out of his life, usually wandering off when he had no more to offer them. Wasn't that the point of learning to accquire so much... to keep people around? Trust was hard—especially for a conman.

Murdock had been different though. The pilot wanted nothing; when Face was at his lowest, Murdock always managed to suddenly appear, ready to help out, but he never sought anything in return. Finally, one humid afternoon months ago, Face had found the pilot, red-eyed and exhausted, clutching a letter from home. Murdock's grandparents had both passed away within days of each other; they were the last of his family—they had raised him like a son since he was five years old.

Misty eyed, Murdock hardly spoke. He just sat, staring sadly down at the crinkled paper. Face asked if he could get Murdock anything—it was a lame attempt at comfort, but it was all he knew.

Face would never forget the man's answer, the way he gazed up, grief stricken and dazed. "_I could use a friend."_

Ever since, that's what Face had been—a friend.

His wandering thoughts were reined in as the chopper's flight path shifted. Hannibal peered forward, carefully watching the cockpit, waiting for a signal. It wouldn't be long.

Time felt distorted, slow and heavy as they waded through the sky. Face tensed, checking his rifled again. It was then that the chopper turned, slowly descending.

"Everyone ready?" The inflection made it sound like a question, but Face knew it was Hannibal's warning. Prepared or not, they were about to land in the thick of it.

He nervously eyed the nearing jungle canopy. The LZ was a small stretch of barren land courtesy of a B-52. The bomb sites made great landing zones, if they weren't booby-trapped.

The long stretch of time suddenly gave way to a sweep of frenzied action as the chopper made a rough landing. Face shuffled out, hearing the scuffle of BA quickly following him. Careful to keep his body low as he hurried forward, Face set himself behind Dom as they entered the thick greenery.

He could hear the chopper as it began its struggle upward, fighting against the warm, still jungle air. As much as he wanted to glance back and watch their last tie to the base leave, Face knew he had to stay focused.

Like a well-oiled machine, everyone quickly set into their positions. Ray took point with BA as the slack man—since he was a genius at spotting and disarming booby traps. Hannibal came next with Murdock behind him. The captain hadn't been satisfied that the only task the colonel had assigned him was '_not to get killed_.' With a light squad, everyone else would be pulling double duty, so the special treatment didn't sit well with the plucky pilot. Murdock did have an M-16, but Hannibal had been adamant in telling him to hit the deck the moment they took fire—which was a command Face was wholeheartedly behind.

Next in line was Callaghan followed by Dom—who was their com specialist this mission. Finally, Face brought up the rear.

It was silent, save for the hum of the departing chopper; every fiber of Face's being was tense with warning and his intuition normally proved very reliable. They hadn't gotten two steps into the jungle before gunfire erupted all around them.

Face dove for cover as he heard the familiar sound of an RPG being launched. He braced, preparing himself for the pain…possibly death, but he was spared.

Hearing an explosion, he glanced up, watching in horror as the chopper, sputtering thick, black smoke and flames, wobbled and dipped as it still fought to gain altitude.

Another RPG flared through the sky, barely missing the wounded aircraft.

Suddenly, Murdock was up, shifting through the leafy cover, firing in the direction the RPG had come from. Bullets struck the ground and trees all around him, but he moved quickly and with surprising precision, either ignoring or simply not hearing the angry shouts from Hannibal.

Face almost went after his friend, but held still instead. As loyal as he felt toward Murdock, he knew stepping out into the open fire would do no good. That would only give the Viet Cong two targets instead of one. Instead, he steadied his rifle, quickly taking out as many of the enemy as he could—lowering the risk of Murdock being shot.

Murdock fired a few more rounds and then dropped to a crouch, eyes fixed in the direction of his hidden enemy, but all was quiet again. Face panted, adrenaline pumping as he scanned the area for any more activity, but they seemed to be clear. Slowly, Murdock glanced up, his gaze settling on the chopper still struggling in the air.

The damage had been too severe. A final explosion ripped through the fuselage, and the chopper, now no more than twisted, flaming wreckage, dropped swiftly from the sky—only the trail of heavy black smoke filling the air hinted of its existence.

Murdock stood stock still, a frown marring his face as he stared hopelessly up at the blacken sky. He had to have known, like they all did, that no one had survived.

Captain Thompson had broken his promise.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

BA tried to stay focused on scanning the perimeter for enemy activity. Dwelling on the flaming chopper that had slammed into the nearby jungle—sending pieces of its hot debris raining down on the team—was _not_ something he wanted to do. He marshaled his thoughts, almost able to keep them away from the crushing fact that he had just been on that bird; mere minutes had been all that had saved him from a certain, horrifying death.

Panic swelled in his chest, but he managed to control it or, at the very least, he didn't let it control him.

_Dead_—those men who had been on the chopper were all dead. Along with BA's fear there was a raw, growing grief—which was more profound than usual, and he was puzzled by its intensity. Hadn't he steeled himself to such losses? He'd seen countless men die before; why did this upset him so?

_Captain Thompson…_The name repeated quietly in his head as he watched Murdock stand like a blasted fool out in the open. Seemingly deaf to Hannibal's urgent commands to find cover, the lanky pilot was making himself a damn easy target.

Narrowing his gaze on Murdock, BA wished he'd never known of Captain Thompson; if no one had told him of the kids, the wife and of his stupid dog, Spud, he wouldn't have felt the grief—or at least he wouldn't have felt it as badly as he did. Why'd Murdock have to tell him? It wasn't fair…

He scowled at the lone captain, feeling a small stab of satisfaction as Hannibal hastily dashed into the clearing, grabbed hold of the dazed man's arm and hauled him roughly back into the safety of the vegetation.

Though he knew it was wrong, BA cultivated his anger, letting the emotion grow and fester; it was far better than that vacuum of weighted sorrow that hung so heavily in his gut. Anger he could use in the bowels of battle but grief he could not. This was why there was no room for friends in war.

Colonel Smith drew near, dragging the stunned man behind him, and, as soon as he reached the rest of the squad, Hannibal turned, blue eyes blazing as they locked on the captain.

"Damn it, I told you to get down and stay down when we took fire," Hannibal hissed, keeping his voice low. "What the hell was that?"

Murdock opened his mouth, drawing in a raspy breath. His eyes, confused and pained, were unblinking as they frantically searched the colonel's face, but he stayed silent. Finally, the captain's gaze dropped to the damp jungle soil, his mouth snapping shut without ever having uttered a word of defense.

For as much as BA wanted to hate the man, he simply couldn't. From the corner of his eye, he watched the grief-stricken pilot try to compose himself, and he felt a sudden protectiveness for the man—the one who had earlier managed to ease his fear. This new sentiment toward Murdock was an uncomfortable feeling though as it too closely paralleled the way in which BA's friendship with Peck had started to grow.

_Damn it; don't need no more 'Nam friends…especially not crazy-ass chopper pilots!_

"Just don't do it again," Hannibal said finally; his tone was softer, though still laced with anger. "And stay close behind me, alright?"

The pilot gave a dumb nod, looking suddenly small, fragile.

Shifting uneasily, BA frowned. He wanted to step forward, tell Hannibal to lay off, but what purpose would that serve? The crazy man was getting the scolding he had coming; the colonel wouldn't do him any real harm.

It was then that the captain glanced over, his gaze meeting BA's. Brows furrowed, eyes still clouded with confusion and shock, there was one pure, unspoken message that the sergeant gained from the man. _I'm sorry—_even amongst the sorrow, it was clearly written in Murdock's expression. It was an apology for being wrong…terribly wrong about Thompson, and it shamed BA like nothing else ever had. Quickly, he turned away, not wanting to see those sad brown eyes begging for forgiveness any longer.

Hannibal's silent signal to move out saved BA from having to stand awkwardly avoiding contact with Murdock any longer.

Upon seeing the command, the men quickly set back into formation. In a single line, they marched away from the smoldering wreckage. Undoubtedly, drawn in by the pillar of smoke, Viet Cong would soon be swarming the area, but, even though speed was of the essence for the team, their pace was tediously slow.

Booby-traps littered the trails, hindering their travel. To avoid them, Ray led the line of men through the densest part of the jungle, and though the going was more strenuous, it proved to be slightly safer. Still, BA and Ray had to halt the group several times as they came upon trip-wires and other unpleasant 'surprises'—some of which they could disarm but others, better left alone, required further detours.

Muffled voices, conversing in Vietnamese, brought them to nervous pauses three times, but, every time, the chatter grew silent as the Viet Cong patrols moved on in the direction of the shattered Slick. However, the wreckage would only serve as a distraction for so long before the Cong would spread out, searching for survivors. Time was running out.

Still, their sluggish pace continued.

BA slowed, leaned down and uncovered yet another small set of punji stakes. Disgusted, he scowled down at the sharpened, fire-hardened bamboo that stood in the small hole. It wouldn't have killed a man—at least not right away. Marching through the jungle with an impaled foot would have been torture, but the truly sadistic twist was the coating layering the spike.

Damn; dying due to infection would be a hell of a way to go, but knowing that infection was brought on by a Viet Cong shit covered punji stake would have been too much for BA to handle. Hell, he figured he might just have to cut off his leg if he ever stepped in one of those god-forsaken traps.

After making sure there were no mud ball mines or any other type of explosive added to the trap, BA used his rifle to mash and maneuver the spikes before filling the hole in with dirt with the heel of his boot.

Again, the slow crawl forward began, but not for long. A larger patrol of Viet Cong emerged from the jungle, barely giving Hannibal's team time enough to quietly slip under cover. Still unseen, the SF men silently waited as, within feet of them, the enemy passed.

BA was sure they would hear his ragged breathing; he tried to mute the sound, but found it impossible. He tensed, ready for a firefight, but the Cong continued on.

For a while, they crouched, giving the enemy enough time to slip far enough away—with no exit strategy currently in place and still unaware of where the captured chopper was, engaging the Viet Cong now would have been foolhardy.

BA perked up at the gentle whisper he heard behind him. He turned to find Hannibal conversing softly with Dom. Why the man was out of formation, BA didn't know, but the strained look on the colonel's face told him that it wasn't good.

Dom rose first, swiftly turning and heading back toward the end of the line. Next, Hannibal stood but before heading after Dom, he glanced over at Ray and BA.

"Keep a lookout; Murdock will stay with you—I'm heading to the back…" Hannibal paused, worry etching his face. "…Peck stepped on some spikes." Quickly, the colonel headed back to assess the damage to his wounded man.

_Shit._ BA's first reaction was to start after Hannibal, but Ray's firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. He'd serve his team better by keeping watch; he knew that, but still…

He glanced back, a new chilling fear clutching him. Shit wasn't the only thing the Viet Cong smeared on the stakes—sometimes they used poison.

Through the leaves, he spotted Dom standing rear guard; the man's expression was indecipherable though as he continuously, dutifully scanned the surrounding area. BA caught glimpses of the camouflaged dome peaks of Hannibal's and Callaghan's helmets, but there was no sign of Peck.

Sensing that both Ray and Murdock were covering for him, keeping watch over their end of the line, BA finally tore his gaze away from where his wounded friend certainly lay. Focusing his concentration, he began to eye the jungle, watching diligently for any motion.

Each passing second chipped away at BA's resolve though, and he found himself, countless times, glancing back down the line again.

_This is why there is no room for friends in war…_

Suddenly, Hannibal appeared with a limping lieutenant beside him. Slightly pale and sweaty, Face still wore one of his patented handsome, toothy grins. Shit; the man might have looked a bit like a weakling, but he was one tough bastard. Hell, if BA had stepped on a stake, he would have been hollering like a madman; the Viet Cong would have had them all pinned down for sure then.

"Well, that sucked." Peck's voice was strained; his smiling expression was holding but was also layered with pain as he limped to a halt next to Murdock.

"You ok?" The captain asked quietly, seeming unsure of his own words.

Face laughed. "Hell, I've been better, but I'll be fine."

No one could know that for sure, not yet. BA glanced at Hannibal; the colonel's face said just as much. If the stakes were poisoned, they might not know right away. They'd just have to wait and see, but that also meant they were running out of time even faster than before.

There was no choice now. BA swallowed hard, his throat tight with dread. Captain Thompson had been flying without an escort, and the pilot probably hadn't gotten out a distress signal before going down. It would take time before anyone at the base worked out that the team was without transport and they desperately, for Face's sake, needed a quick extraction.

They'd have to find the Huey; they'd have to fly it out of the jungle.

Hands beginning to tremble again, BA fought against his fear.

"BA…"

He quickly glanced up, catching Hannibal staring at him. Embarrassment dashed out his fear and, scowling, he nodded curtly in response.

"Go take rear guard."

The command didn't surprise him. Callaghan would need to stick close to Face near the middle of the line and Dom was carrying the radio equipment. Silently, BA took his new position and they started out.

The steady trudge forward blurred time, so that when they did come upon the clearing containing the chopper, BA felt a surge of surprise.

They crouched at the tree line, studying the layout of the area. What had been described as a rabbit hole was now a fully cleared LZ. Freshly hacked branches and shrubs littered the ground. A lot of work had gone into preparing the area, but why? A skilled enough pilot could have maneuvered out, not easily, but it could have been done. Whoever they had to fly the bird must have been pretty green.

BA shifted, readying his rifle. He knew as soon as Hannibal formed a plan, they would spring into action. There were about fifteen Viet Cong soldiers milling about the chopper, but there were certainly more nearby. The team would probably have to take a run at the Huey, giving Murdock little time to prep the bird and takeoff before they were all riddled with bullets.

Again, the fear crept up on BA. Getting in that chopper was one of the last things he wanted to do. The image of the Slick erupting into a ball of flames kept playing through his mind. His thoughts were interrupted though as he caught the slight sway of movement in the jungle behind the team.

Before he could give any warning though, a single clap of rifle fire sounded, followed quickly by a burning warmth in his thigh. He was able to raise his gun, firing a few rounds before another wave of pain burrowed into his shoulder. Staggering backwards, he found Dom beside him, laying down cover fire.

He stepped back, taking a new position as the jungle they had just traveled seemed suddenly to fill with Viet Cong. The mass of enemy pushed forward, giving Hannibal's team nowhere to flee save for the open clearing.

Over the chaos, Hannibal yelled for them to head toward the chopper.

Murdock and Face were laying down a new line of cover fire as Dom, BA and Callaghan retreated back toward them, and Ray and Hannibal were busy holding off the Viet Cong soldiers in the clearing around the chopper.

Suddenly, Hannibal launched himself toward Murdock, pushing the man down. Then, the colonel grimaced, his body flinching with the impact of some unseen force before he crumpled to the ground.

Amid the storm of gun fire, BA fought to draw in a shaky breath as he stared at the motionless colonel. Beside the big sergeant, a new cry of pain sounded as Dom fell to his knees, but the man was quick to rise, continuing his frantic race toward his teammates.

BA, though already feeling the results of his blood loss, continued forward as well. No matter what, they would do as Hannibal said; they would _all_ get to the chopper.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Muffled gunfire rang in Murdock's ears as he lay face down on the damp jungle floor. Beneath him, the frame of his M-16 pressed awkwardly, uncomfortably against his body; his right index finger gave an uncontrolled twitch and he was surprised to find it still tentatively resting on the trigger.

_What happened?_ It was a simple question, but he could devise no answer.

His muddled mind pieced together that he _had _been helping Face lay down cover fire. He recalled watching with trepidation as BA, Callaghan and Dom hobbled away from the mass of Viet Cong soldiers swarming within the jungle, but then… what was it? Had he been hit? Was it an RPG? Something had slammed into him. Was he hurt? He didn't know.

Confusion eclipsing his courage, he kept still.

Through his numbed senses, the din of battle surrounding him sounded distant, dull, but, from the depths of the jungle, he could plainly hear a lone, long, frantic scream. Filled with agony and that imposing, singular terror of the dying, the voice was distinctly Vietnamese. The sound chilled him, made his hair stand on end.

Then, the frightened shriek came to a sudden, strangled end.

Trembling, Murdock tried to draw in a breath but found his lungs unable to grant him the minor favor. He knew he had to move; he had to set back into motion, killing to survive, helping Face and the others, but the haunting reminder of that scream echoed in his mind, giving him reason to pause. He didn't want to die, not here, and he certainly didn't want to kill.

Without his chopper, he felt naked, terrifyingly vulnerable. The feel of the gun in his hands was wrong; he needed controls not weapons. Though he'd trained plenty for ground combat, he suddenly realized how ill prepared he truly was. He _needed_ to be in the air.

Opening his eyes, he quickly blinked the haze from his vision and regained his nerve. Come hell or high water, he was going to get to that chopper.

Sitting up, he grimaced at the tenderness in his chest, but, after a quick assessment, he found he only suffered from a few bruised ribs. With some strain, he was finally able to take in a slow, warm breath—which was tainted with the stench of rotting flesh.

His gaze gradually wandered to a patch of ground upwind of him; there he spotted a pile of pale, bloated corpses. He counted three lifeless forms, two dressed in fatigues and one in a flight suit; this had to be the Huey's crew, but where was the fourth?

With his senses returning, Murdock flinched as bullets tore into the soft ground beside him, sending sprays of loose soil flying as they landed.

Every shot, every voice suddenly seemed magnified. Colors snapped into vivid sharpness, contrasting and vying for his eye. Movements—people running, leaves flickering— were too fast as the wash of action took his attention.

_Shit, shit, shit…_

Raising his rifle, he fired off a few rounds from his seated position. The Viet Cong held the jungle's edge, crouching amid the growing shadows of the evening, but, strangely, those who had been closest to the chopper had seemingly abandoned the clearing.

Shouts, frantic and hoarse, sounded nearby and Murdock slowly recognized the voice as Face's.

"IS HE OK?"

Murdock cast a quick glance over at the lieutenant as the man repeated himself. "DAMN IT, IS HE OK?"

Face kept his eyes on the jungle as he continued to lay cover fire for BA, Callaghan and Dom, but it was clear from his uneasy expression that he was losing both strength and hope. Further off, Ray stood, firing and shouting orders at the three men still fleeing the enemy.

Murdock started to rise, but it was then that he spotted Hannibal lying on the ground beside him. The colonel's helmet was gone—it lay some five feet away; his greying blond hair was matted and wet with crimson.

"HOLY HELL, MURDOCK…" Face screamed. "…JUST TELL ME IF HE'S STILL ALIVE."

Hannibal stirred, his eyes fluttering open. "Tell Face to cram it, I'm fine." He muttered to Murdock, determination settling onto his gruff visage as he quickly sat up, snatched his rifle and rose. "Damn it, I'm down for three whole seconds and you all haven't cleaned this shit up yet?"

Murdock blinked, still uncertain of what had happened.

"Get that bird cranked up," Hannibal growled at the captain as he joined Ray and Face in laying down cover fire. "…And..uh…Murdock, sometime today would be great. I'd like to get out of here before I have to save your ass again."

Chancing one last glance at those in the most peril, Murdock held his breath as he saw the three blood soaked sergeants. BA was moving slowly; his dark face glistening with sweat and pain as he limped forward; his shoulder and right thigh were painted red from his wounds. Dom, barely managing to stand, was only able to continue as Callaghan had sidled up to him, giving what aid he could. The gut wound Dom suffered didn't look good, not even from a distance.

"GO!" Hannibal hollered; his voice startling Murdock to his feet.

In a split second, the captain was sprinting toward the chopper. Each crack of gunfire seemed to further electrify the air with an unrelenting threat of death. He kept the Huey in his sight, determined not to be detoured…until he neared the pile of bodies.

He slowed, glancing at the dead, surprised to spot the fourth body hidden behind the others, but, bound and gagged, the still form suddenly shifted.

Midstride, Murdock froze. Even through his fear, the flood of adrenaline and hailstorm of bullets, he hadn't forgotten the mission assigned solely to him…Sergeant Stinson.

There wasn't time; he knew that. Licking his lips, he studied the man—dressed in a flight suit, he had to be the Huey's pilot or co-pilot; it wasn't Agent Stinson, but did that matter? Murdock frowned, the urgency of the moment weighing heavily upon him. No, he'd never knowingly leave anyone behind…never.

Quickly, he changed course, heading toward the bound man. Shouldering his rifle, he unsheathed his knife and knelt, nearly jumping out of his skin as the man violently flinched beneath his touch.

"It's ok. I'm here to help; just take it easy…" Murdock set to work as he spoke, freeing first the man's wrists and then his ankles. Damn; the kid looked too young to be flying a plane, even by Murdock's standards.

Pallid face speckled in dried blood, the dark haired youth was quick to reach for his gag the moment his hands were freed. Large glossy eyes, shadowed with unsettling memories, peered mournfully up at Murdock.

"T-they k-killed them…" His haunted gaze shifted weakly to the pile of bodies—watching them as if he feared they might again come alive…screaming and writhing in agony as the first stages of maggots crawled through their flesh.

Murdock had to force the words out; he didn't want to sound cruel, but there wasn't time to deal with the man's wounded psyche at the moment. "Can you get to the chopper? Can you get her started?"

Blankness settled over the man's face. The fear was gone, the haunted expression had vanished; he just stared ahead, perfectly still.

Murdock let out a soft curse. He'd hoped that…

"I can do it." The man answered, already on his feet and moving toward the chopper before Murdock could react.

A twisting doubt lingered in the captain's gut as he watched the young man hurry toward the Huey, but this small saving grace would grant him just enough time to complete his mission—though he really wasn't too keen on this next part.

Trying to ignore the smell, he pulled the first corpse off the pile; dressed in a flight suit, he was sure this wasn't Stinson, but he did recognize the man. Morris Hemming…he'd met him once in Da Nang. The man was a decent pilot, though his affinity for booze did, reputedly, not help his aviation skills.

Murdock only briefly stared at the dark bullet hole in the man's temple before he leaned forward and snatched up Hemming's dog tags. _That was a shitty way for any pilot to go._

Quickly, he flipped over the next body and, not recognizing the man, he gathered up his dog tags before he shifted over to the last corpse.

This had to be Stinson.

Behind him, he could hear chopper purr to life, blades starting to spin. _Damn;_ he really didn't want to fly the bird without giving it a once over, but that couldn't be helped.

He reached out, grabbed a cold, stiff shoulder and turned the man over.

Unlike the other bodies, Stinson's eyes were wide open; his expression frozen in a state of terror. Murdock's heart started to race even more than it had already been, so that his chest ached with the intensity of it. For a moment, he remained entranced by Stinson's large, unseeing, opaque eyes—those unnerving symbols of death.

He reached out, closed the eyes and then took Stinson's dog tags. This man…he had known this man; he had flown with this man. Flies buzzed and settled, gathering at the corners of Stinson's mouth and nostrils. Murdock waved them off once before remembering himself; he wasn't yet done with his mission.

Ignoring the insects, he started to paw through Stinson's pockets, searching for anything that the CIA wouldn't want to fall into enemy hands. Coming up empty, he sighed and, about to get to his feet, he paused as he caught sight of a face watching him from the jungle.

The boy's dark, narrow eyes watched him with such heated, angry intensity, that Murdock felt his breath falter. One side the youth's face was smooth, healthy, but the other was marred, puckered with the red wounded skin seen too often in these parts—a little souvenir from a napalm attack.

As he peered across the clearing, there was some spark of understanding in the young man's gaze; some recognition that, at first, Murdock couldn't understand.

Then, slowly, the boy lifted a single slip of folded, bloodstained paper for Murdock to see. A crooked, tight-lipped smile spread across the young Viet Cong's face as his gaze shifted to the body the captain had been searching. Murdock followed the gaze, realizing what this meant, and, looking back up, he found the smiling, scarred youth raising his rifle.

_SHIT!_

Murdock didn't hesitate. He turned and ran like a jackrabbit on crack as the kid opened fire. A wisp of pain brushed his leg, but he ran on.

As he neared the chopper, he found the rest of the team already loading into the back. Hannibal gave him a questioning glance, obviously unaware that another man had started the Huey up.

He'd let the colonel chew him out later. Legs pumping, Murdock continued his mad dash, but, suddenly sensing the surprising lack of gunfire, he stumbled and went crashing to the ground beside the chopper.

He blinked, ready to leap back up, until he spotted something beneath the leafy palms that were partially covering the chopper's skids. Reaching out, he tentatively brushed the greenery away; his blood running cold at the sight that awaited him.

A few bullets hit the dirt beside him. The Viet Cong obviously didn't want him messing with their work, and, if the chopper didn't take off soon, they would undoubtedly beginfiring on the bird.

Murdock scrambled to his feet. He felt a wave of numbness wash over him as he pulled himself into the pilot's seat. The cold-eyed young pilot he'd saved had placed himself in the co-pilot's seat; he kept calm, unnaturally focused on the gauges as Murdock entered.

That was why the Viet Cong had cleared so much brush away. A single bounce on takeoff and all their hard work would have been for naught. That was why they ceased firing when the team had neared the Huey; one stray bullet and the chopper would have sent out shrapnel far enough to take out most of the Viet Cong crouched nearby.

Murdock took a second to listen to the hum of the Huey. She sounded alright. The gauges looked good. There was enough fuel to get them back to Dong Xoai. Everything seemed in order…besides the load of explosives latched to their belly and skids.

He closed his eyes, hoping like hell some kind of brilliant plan would come to mind. He'd seen the small pits beneath sections of skids housing the pressure sensitive triggers. Once he was up in the air, landing was going to be a damn big problem.

"GET THIS BIRD UP, NOW!"

Murdock jumped and then glanced back, catching sight of Hannibal's bloodied face before he turned away to settle himself into his seat.

Like Hannibal, the Viet Cong seemed to be losing patience; their gunfire slowly started up again.

And suddenly, Murdock knew, there was no choice. Steadying his breathing, he grinned over at his young co-pilot.

"Well," he said, putting a bit of a sing-song nature into his voice. "It looks like we're going up, one way or the other."

There was a glimmer of confusion in the young man's eyes, but, besides a slight frown, he gave no indication that he cared to know what Murdock was talking about.

For whatever reason, it was the second act of Jules Massenet's opera, _Don Quichotte, _that sprang into Murdock's head and then came from his lips as he firmly grabbed the stick. This seemed to startle the co-pilot a little more, much to Murdock's amusement and relief. The coldness from the youth had been…unsettling.

Bellowing out one of Sancho Panza's lines, Murdock silently prayed that he could get get them off the ground without blowing everyone up; after all, it would be a shame if he never got to his favorite part of the opera—Don Quixote tilting at windmills.

And with that thought, he reached down and placed his left hand on the collective-pitch lever and let out one blood-curdling howl before pulling up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Ignoring the pain flaring through his skull, Hannibal inched back into the chopper, not willing to take his eyes off the jungle which shrouded the silent enemy. A cold internal warning pulsed through him; the Viet Cong's sudden, inexplicable ceasefire—though seemingly a turn of luck for the team—wasn't fooling him. Charlie should have been lighting that Huey up like the Fourth of July, and the fact that they'd let up meant some bad shit was about to go down; Hannibal damn well didn't want to stick around to find out what that was.

Behind him, from the floor of the chopper, he could hear Dom's piercing cries as Callaghan tended to him.

A quick glance back proved what Hannibal already knew; all his men had made it into the chopper—whether they all lived long enough to get out of this shithole of a jungle was another story though.

Dom was pale, gasping as his glossy, pleading gaze fixed steadily on Callaghan. The medic, for his part, remained calm, focused. The red-head pulled out a syrette of morphine from his med bag, uttered soft words of assurance to Dom and then administered the drug.

Nearby, BA sat, slumped with glazed eyes. His rifle was down; his great frame was limp save for the ragged shudders of breath he drew in. For the Sergeant to be immobile when the team was under enemy threat meant the big man was hurting—badly.

Seated next to BA, Face was scrambling to pull gauze from Callaghan's med kit. The frantic pitch of the lieutenant's voice as he called out to the medic for assistance said it all; BA was fading.

On the other side of the chopper, leaning out the opposite door, Ray stood scanning the jungle with his M-16 at the ready. The sudden stillness from the enemy was obviously unnerving him as much as it was Hannibal.

And, one lone figure was in the cockpit, but he was seated in the co-pilot's position. Well, Murdock seemed capable enough, and if he chose that position then that meant something must have been wrong with the pilot's seat.

All this Hannibal had taken in with a glance before fixing his gaze back on the jungle. Carefully watching the shadows that hid the enemy, he raised his voice to penetrate the loud hum of the chopper. "TAKE HER UP, MURDOCK."

Easing himself into the door gunner's seat, he tensed in preparation for the liftoff, but, as the seconds ticked by and the Huey remained grounded, he felt his agitation rise.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? TAKER HER UP!"

Clinging to the remnants of his composure, Hannibal fought back the urge to fling himself into the cockpit and unleash all hell on the pilot. With a weary sigh, he wetted his lips, ready to call his order out again. Couldn't one damn thing just go right for them?

Suddenly, a few lone shots sounded, and a lanky figure appeared in the clearing, racing toward the Huey. Instinct had the colonel aiming his rifle at the man, but he lowered it as the sinking realization of who was out there dawned on him.

Hannibal blinked, his breath catching in his chest as he stared at Murdock. _What the hell?_

He cast a fleeting glance up at the cockpit, finally noting that the young man present was shorter, paler than their intended pilot. A knot of disgust grew in his belly; how had he not noticed that earlier?

Outside the chopper, Murdock kept running, his face a wash of controlled fear and determination, but, just as he neared the bird, the pilot lost his balance and went careening to the ground; he lay there for a moment, painfully still, until Hannibal caught the faintest of movements from the man.

Bracing himself, Hannibal raised his M-16 and sprayed a few rounds into the jungle, giving Murdock what cover he could, as he sprang to his feet and crawled into the pilot's seat.

Hannibal knew it would take at least a few seconds for the man to get his bearings in the chopper, but, as time ticked by, he couldn't wait any longer. Getting up, moving toward the cockpit, he glared at Murdock. The captain had his eyes closed; his face was pinched in deep concentration.

The order flew off Hannibal's lips almost without thought. "GET THIS BIRD UP, NOW!"

Murdock jumped; his eyes popping open and flashing back at the colonel with wild, anxious surprise. Hannibal could detect something else in that gaze, a shimmer of warning, concern, but they had no time for added dangers, and Hannibal quickly turned away, settling himself back into the door gunner's seat, leaving the pilot to his work.

A few more uncomfortable moments slid by before the thunder of AK-47's resumed with full force. Face took up a position beside Ray, returning fire, and Callaghan, hands still slick with blood, was quickly beside Hannibal doing the same.

Eyes wide with fear, the medic glanced up at Hannibal as he grabbed a fresh clip. His voice, shaky and hoarse, still managed to break through the madness. "We're not gonna make it…" Without waiting for a response, Callaghan turned back, spraying bullets into the jungle.

Pulse racing, Hannibal watched a Viet Cong collapse as his bullet hit its mark, but still they kept coming. _Shit; _there were too many of them out there. If this bird didn't fly the coop soon, then Callaghan was right, and there wasn't a god-damn thing Hannibal could do about it.

A lengthy, manic howl suddenly emanated from the cockpit, resonating through the chopper just as the Huey—with tremendous, jaw-shattering thrust—lifted upward.

Toppling to the floor, Hannibal cursed and quickly reached out, getting a firm hold of Callaghan before the man disappeared out the door to the jungle below.

"Holy shit…" Wide eyed, that's all Callaghan was able to utter before shaking the fright off and hurrying back to check on Dom.

_Holy shit indeed. _Hannibal glared up at the cockpit. After a takeoff like that, they were all damn lucky to still be in one piece. He'd expected better of Murdock—far better. Or maybe he'd expected better of Face; this guy was the lieutenant's choice, after all.

_Ace pilot…my ass…_

Hannibal cast a quick glance to the opposite side of the Huey, anxious to see if Ray was still seated in the other gunner's position or if he'd been thrown from the bird. Thankfully, a rather shaken, pale Ray was still present, firing into the surrounding jungle—not that his M-16 would do much good at this distance, but it was better than nothing.

Leaning out his door, Hannibal watched for the RPG's that were sure to come, but the searing hiss of rockets never sounded.

As they rose up over the canopy, Hannibal pulled himself back into the chopper, still unable to shake his doubt, his growing, gnawing worry. Something wasn't right…

"How's he doing?" He asked, peering over Callaghan's shoulder to get a better look at Dom. The kid looked bad; pallid and beaded with sweat, his face held that lingering pain and confusion of a doped up, dying man.

The medic shrugged, his vague answer was crafted to sound hopeful, despite the grim realities of what lay before him; Hannibal had heard it before, standing over Sergeant Rolland. The words came out the same then as now…

"It could have been worse."

Hannibal's memories of Rolland faded as another jubilant howl erupted from the cockpit, bringing his irritation with the team's new, _temporary_ pilot to a peak.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?" He yelled, glaring at Face.

_Damn it, _short or not, he should have put his foot down and demanded Williamson for this op instead of some hot-shot rookie friend of one of the biggest pains in the ass on his team.

Even as he held a wad of gauze to BA's oozing shoulder, Face managed a bright, flashy grin. "Well…um…they don't call him Howlin' Mad Murdock for nothing."

A spark of consciousness returned to BA; he stiffened, pulling at the straps holding him in. "W-what…we in a chopper with that fool? H-howlin' Mad? I don't wanna…"

"Easy, big guy, easy," Face cooed, gently pushing BA back. "Everything is going to be A-Okay, alright?"

BA didn't look reassured, but he'd lost too much blood to put of much of a struggle. The big sergeant's eyes fluttered closed, his body going completely limp.

Smile gone, Face quickly reached for more gauze, but, eyes wide, he suddenly paused.

"My ears are burning. You all musta been talkin' about me."

Hannibal glanced up, completely unprepared for what he saw. Having maneuvered himself out of the cockpit, Murdock stood beside Face.

"MURDOCK!" The horror in Face's voice echoed in Hannibal's head. "Who the hell is flying the chopper?"

Tilting his head slightly, lips pursed, Murdock stared contemplatively at the floor for a second before looking up, a wide, toothy grin lighting his face. "Well, I don't rightfully know his name, but I found him in the jungle back there. I was hoping…" He cast a friendly, pleading glance at Hannibal. "…that the Colonel would let me keep him. I think I'll name him George."

"Murdock…"

Hannibal cut Face off. "WHAT IN THE _HELL_ DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING BACK HERE, CAPTAIN? GET BACK INTO THAT COCKPIT NOW; THAT'S AN ORDER."

"No can do…" the pilot answered calmly, pivoting around a stunned Ray and reaching for a monkey harness. "We're short a crew chief and this bird has got some…ah…uh… problems."

Slipping into the harness, Murdock sighed, his expression growing stern, serious. Hannibal's anger faded; this explained why the captain had been so reluctant to take off.

"Will we make it back?" He asked, watching the pilot's reaction carefully.

"Maybe…"

Murdock wasn't sure; there was doubt reflected in his hunched posture, his wrinkled brow.

_Shit._

Again, the wide grin returned to Murdock's face. "Hold on, I'll be right back…maybe it's not so bad." And, with that, he edged out onto the skid and disappeared from sight.

There seemed to be a general tension that hung in the air—which was understandable seeing as they had just watched their pilot step from their chopper…midflight. Nervous gazes were exchanged, questioning what had happened, but no one seemed willing to step forward and see. Only Ray, who sat close enough to have a good vantage point, seemed slightly more at ease; still, that hardly settled anyone else's nerves.

"What's he up to?" Hannibal finally asked his LT, but Ray only shrugged.

"I have no idea, can't see exactly what he's doing. Maybe the fuselage was hit? He's looking under the chopper."

Eventually, Murdock pulled himself back into the Huey. A smile still remained on his face, but it was far more restrained, maybe slightly forced.

"Uh…ah…Colonel?" The pilot unstrapped his harness, carefully crossed the chopper and stopped only inches away from Hannibal. "I need to have a word with you."

Murdock's voice was low, and Hannibal could see the strain on his men's faces as they tried to listen in. Still, if the pilot felt this needed to stay between them, he'd trust the man…for now.

A curt nod was all Murdock needed from Hannibal before he continued. His words grew quieter still, so that they were barely audible to even the colonel.

"When we get to Dong Xoai…" He paused to wet his lips, perhaps giving himself time to gather his thoughts. "…I can bring her down low, but I won't be able to touch down to let you all out."

_Shit. _Hannibal immediately looked to Dom; in his current condition, that kind of drop would probably kill him. And the chopper had been stripped by the Viet Cong. All the rappelling gear was gone. Hell, they were lucky they still had benches to sit on.

Murdock shifted and Hannibal could sense that he too was eyeing the injured man.

"That's a death sentence for him." Hannibal murmured, keeping his voice low.

"Maybe not," Murdock answered softly. "I'll get the chopper as low as I can, and…" He kept silent until Hannibal looked back, meeting his grave gaze. "Setting down would be a death sentence for all of us."

There was a moment of silence, which wasn't at all comfortable.

"What aren't you telling me, Captain?" It was a fair question.

Murdock fidgeted, not meeting Hannibal's gaze. "Um, who's your demolitions expert on the team?"

_Damn-it!_ That was not what he wanted to hear.

Hannibal immediately looked to BA. "Baracus…"

Murdock sighed. "I was afraid of that. I barely got the chopper up…one bounce on liftoff and that would have been the end. When we get to Dong Xoai, I'll let you out…get as much weight out of the bird as possible. It'll make it easier for me to land…" A hollow smirk formed and then vanished from Murdock's face, pulling suddenly into a puckered frown.

Easier for him to land? That was crap, and Hannibal would've called him on it, but, for once, he decided to let the lie be.

Lost in thought, Hannibal suddenly realized his hand had gone to the pocket with his one lone cigar in it, but it still wasn't time to smoke it, not yet. "I'll see that everyone gets off in Dong Xoai, but I'm staying onboard and…"

"Nope; end of story. You're getting off with the rest of them." Murdock's response was quick, as if he'd expected this of Hannibal, and he didn't give the colonel any time for argument either, as he turned and started to work his way back into the cockpit. "_Everyone_ gets out before I land."

Hannibal sat, dumbfounded, watching the man leave. No junior officer just flat out refused a colonel like that. Either the guy had a massive set of balls or he was completely insane, and the bellowing operatic voice suddenly sounding from the cockpit was starting to verify which it was…

* * *

><p><em><strong>*I'd like to give a special thanks to sss979 for some good advice on this chapter...Thanks!*<strong>_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Belting out another line from _Don Quichotte, _Murdock reentered the cockpit. His meeting with Hannibal had gone better than he'd hoped—not magnificently, but there'd been markedly less of a red-faced dress-down than he'd expected from the Colonel. He _hadn'_t even been threatened with a court martial…yet.

Savoring his song, he held each note, giving it the _joie de vivre_ it deserved before moving on to the next; plus, he used the rhythm of the chopper as an accompaniment to his melody rather than a steady stream of noise meant to be combated, over-ridden. Sliding down into the pilot's seat, he closed his eyes, becoming lost in the rapture of the music. After all, _this_ was his stage.

But for how long?

Launching into another of Sancho Panza's lines, he opened his eyes and scanned the gauges. Everything appeared to be in order. Hell, if the Viet Cong hadn't trashed their radio and strapped explosives to their belly, they'd be sitting pretty.

A tickle vibrated in his throat as he held one long, low note. Caught in the moment, he cast a wide, open-mouthed grin over at his co-pilot. Damn, the guy was young; what the hell was the 118th doing with a pup like him?

With some effort, he held his broad smile in place even as it became excruciatingly apparent that he wasn't going to be acknowledged. Still, he kept his gaze patiently glued on the kid, waiting for a reaction. Slowly, his breath gave out and the note died away.

Dark, vacant eyes scanning the sky, not bothering to glance at the newly returned pilot, the kid remained stoically cold, distant.

Clearing his throat, Murdock finally dropped his gaze in defeat. _Damn, _this guy was gonna be hard to win over.

"I'll take the controls back now…" He veiled it as a polite request, but if he had to make it sound more like an order he would.

There was no argument. The controls were given over freely, silently.

For a while they sat, focused on the flight, but, with Dong Xoai nearing, Murdock felt his anxiety grow. Getting the bird down in one piece wasn't going to be simple; he had to find out if the kid was going to be useful—or not. Ah, lord help him if he had to do this on his own...

He hoped some light conversation would help open the kid up. "So, what's your name?"

No response; just a lethargic blink—which made Murdock _really_ start to question his choice to leave the kid flying solo. Yeah, that probably hadn't been his best move—of course, he'd do it again if need be.

"I'm Captain H.M. Murdock." He fused as much friendliness into his voice as he could muster without sounding like a hyped-up children's cartoon. "People usually just call me Murdock…or…um…Howlin' Mad…"

The kid stayed silent, his stony expression further depleting Murdock's confidence in his emotional state. Sleep deprived and traumatized, the guy was definitely shutting down.

"Yeah…now would be the time you tell me your name…"

Another slow blink… _Damn; _that wasn't a good sign.

Gradually, Murdock's hope of gaining any aid from the kid faded. He didn't have time to keep chiseling away at the block of hurt and shock encasing the man. He'd have to figure out a way to land the Huey alone without blowing himself up—which, according to his calculations, was going to be a nearly impossible task.

He was so engrossed in formulating a new plan that the Captain gave a start when his co-pilot did finally speak.

"We'd been to that LZ before…" He didn't seem to be talking to Murdock in particular; his voice was too automated, too sterile, like a recorded message on playback. "Our door gunners, Stilts and Bobby, would get out…Bobby would keep lookout while Stilts met with someone there. I didn't ask questions…knew better."

That made sense; it fit with the information the Agency had given Murdock. This LZ was a rendezvous point for Stinson and one of his informants. They probably didn't use it often, since it was so unsecure, but if the information was good enough they'd have chanced it every once in a while.

Murdock shifted nervously. He had to keep the kid talking. "Stilts? Was that Stinson?"

Confusion clouded the kid's face for a moment before he spoke again. "Yeah…the bastard was tall…he _was…_"

The way he trailed off, Murdock could tell he was losing him again. "Tell, me about this last time…what happened?"

There was a long hesitation. It was a lot to ask, Murdock knew that. The hurt was still too fresh.

"Everything seemed fine, at first…" Still staring blankly, he paused, wetting his lips. "…We came down into the LZ, and it _looked_ clear, but…"

Murdock waited, giving the man the time he needed.

The kid's voice came back, hoarse, tinged every so faintly with a rolling combination of disbelief, anger and fear. "…they were _everywhere…_ everywhere…the ground just opened up and the Viet Cong were there…shooting and yelling. Something exploded nearby…maybe Bobby got a grenade out. I don't know, but I was knocked out…and w-when I woke up…"

Again, he went silent, and Murdock glanced over—expecting to find him broken down, sobbing, but he found only a marble façade, still and devoid of emotion. The pain was there though; he couldn't see it, but he knew it was there—stewing, eating away at the kid.

Quickly looking away, Murdock shrugged. There were no words that could ease that pain, no magic advice that could make sense of what had happened; he'd heard too many people try, and they always failed.

Even the joy of being airborne could no longer mute the weariness Murdock felt at that moment, and, in a clear, firm tone, he finally managed the only words that felt truly genuine. "I'm sorry."

After a loud, sharp breath, the kid suddenly, unexpectedly continued.

"I woke up outside of the chopper, hands and feet tied. First thing I saw was Stilts…they'd shot him in the head…and he just lay there, beside me…his eyes open…blood…and…" His story seemed bogged down by emotions and a disconnection of thoughts as he waded through his memories. "…and then there was a gunshot and Bobby slumped over on top of Stilts. He just fell down dead…"

_Shit; _that situation would have been bad for anyone, but the kid had been _way_ too green for it.

Still, Murdock had gained some useful information. Stinson's quick death meant the Viet Cong hadn't been aware of his status with the Agency—if they had, he would've been kept alive for interrogation. So, if this ambush wasn't about gaining government secrets, what was it about?

"They killed Skip next; he was our AC." The kid's dark eyes flashed up at Murdock, narrowing. "He was a _damn_ good pilot…the best."

The kid must have been talking about Morris Hemming. He wasn't the best, not by a long shot, but Murdock wouldn't argue that fact.

He offered over a sad smile, not quite a sign of agreement, but a peace offering none the less. Slowly, the kid's gaze dropped. Hell, he might not have had the best choice in pilots, but Murdock had to admire his loyalty.

"And then there was only me…" It was in that sentence that the hard, guilt-riddled grief of a survivor sounded. He looked up again, the corners of his eyes glistening with tears, his voice cracking as he spoke. "Why didn't they kill me?"

It was a good question, one that Murdock had wondered but had refused to voice. Too much cruelty lay in the asking.

Sensing the need for a response, Murdock finally answered softly, "I don't know."

In his peripheral vision, he saw a single tear streak its way down the kid's face before he gruffly wiped his cheeks with his sleeve, steeling his emotions away once again.

"If I didn't give them any trouble, they said I could fly the chopper out in the morning…" There was still a definite, distinct quiver in his voice. "…but I don't know why they said it…it didn't make sense…They were probably messin' with me. I'm sure they were just going to kill me eventually…like the others."

Murdock considered this, but rejected that they'd chance leaving him alive for so long simply to kill him later.

"How much fuel did you have when you arrived at the LZ?"

The kid's answer was quick, sure. "We'd just fueled up at Bien Hoa."

Murdock frowned. "So the Viet Cong must've siphoned it?"

There was less certainty this time. "Yeah…"

"And they left just enough for the chopper to make it to Dong Xoai?" Something wasn't adding up. "Why not just leave all the fuel? They'd have gotten a bigger boom that way; we would've made it back to the Bien Hoa Air base instead of Dong Xoai but the damage would've been significantly higher."

Murdock froze, mouth slightly ajar as a sudden revelation struck him. Leaning back in his seat, he felt his heart start to race. Hell, it wasn't much more than a hunch at this point, but Murdock trusted his gut and, at the moment, his gut was telling him they were in for a serious shit storm.

"HANNIBAL! HEY, COLONEL, GET UP HERE!" Murdock paused only long enough to refill his lungs. "HANN-I-BAL! HELLO?"

Wide-eyed, the kid sat stiffly staring at Murdock as Hannibal barreled into the cockpit. A mixture of concern and irritation strained the Colonel's face.

Placing a hand on the back of Murdock's chair, Hannibal leaned down, his steely blue eyes narrowing on the pilot. "WHAT?" The snap of that first word eased a little as he added, "this had better be good, Captain."

Glancing back, Murdock gave a weak grin. "Well…um…ya see…I was thinking that the VC went to a lot of trouble to get us headin' to Dong Xoai and there's probably a reason for that—if you know what I mean."

Hannibal's frown deepened. "I don't. Get to the point."

"I mean, they gave us just enough fuel to limp into the Special Forces camp at Dong Xoai, and they busted our radio so we can't call and give them any heads up we're on our way. The SF guys are gonna to be mighty surprised to see us—especially if we show up on their doorstep and blow up. I was just thinkin' that maybe…"

"That would be one hell of a distraction," Hannibal groaned, finally understanding what the pilot was hinting at. "You think the VC are planning an attack on Dong Xoai?"

"Wouldn't be the first time; they'd just be finishing what they started in '65," Murdock answered, eyes back on his instrument panel. "There was a little scuttlebutt a few weeks back about a large VC force in the area, but they hadn't been spotted since, and it certainly would be a feather in their cap. Plus, the kid said they had been planning on cutting him loose in the morning...letting him fly the chopper away free and clear. So, I'm guessing tomorrow morning is when they had planned to attack, but now that we stepped in, I bet they move the attack up."

Hannibal sighed. "Yeah, if they could take Dong Xoai, we'd lose our foothold on the crossroads of National Highway 1, Highway 14 and Inter-Provisional Road 13…_Shit._ Still, it's just a hunch, right?"

"Yeah, but I figured I'd let you know. What you do with all that is up to you. I just deal with the stuff in the air, remember? The ground is all yours."

There was a moment of silence before Hannibal turned away and then paused. "I'm going to see if we can get Dom's radio running, but the damn thing took even more bullets than he did, so I doubt it. How much longer until we get to Dong Xoai?"

Murdock shrugged. "Couple of minutes."

He'd almost thought the Colonel had left, until Hannibal spoke up once again.

"Captain?" Hannibal's pause forced Murdock to glance back, meeting the Colonel's gaze. "Do you have a plan for landing this bird?"

He grinned. "I got one that would make Wiley E. Coyote jealous."

Turing away again, voice deep with sarcasm, Hannibal replied, "Great…that's just…great…"

As soon as the Colonel had departed, Murdock shot another grin over at his co-pilot. "I can't believe he still hasn't threatened me with a court-martial." He raised a brow. "But…I bet he does before this flight is over. Hell, I can almost guarantee it!"

The kid actually smirked, just a little. "You really are crazy, aren't you?" There was a hint of admiration in his voice.

"Well…my name does reflect as much, doesn't it?" Damn, it felt good to have the kid talking like a real person instead of a shell-shocked zombie.

But, much to Murdock's chagrin, they fell back into silence and it wasn't until they were almost on top of Dong Xoai that the kid spoke again. "Oswald Grimstone."

Startled, Murdock frowned. "What?"

"That's my name, but everyone calls me Oz. You'd asked."

"Yeah," Murdock chuckled. "I guess I did, Oz. It's nice to meet you; now, would you like to help me land a chopper booby-trapped with explosives into a potential battlefield? _It'll be fun_..."

"Explosives?" The sudden apprehension in Oz's voice said it all.

_Shit…_yeah, maybe Murdock had forgotten to fill the kid in on that little tidbit. Well, they still had a good thirty seconds or so until they reached Dong Xoai; that was plenty of time to run Oz through the plan, right?


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Limbs leaded with exhaustion, Face leaned back in his seat, eyeing Baracus.

Had he _really_ done that shitty of a job dressing the Sergeant's wounds? Frowning at the bloodied, tangled mess of gauze encasing BA's thigh and shoulder, Face slowly let his drooping eyelids slide shut.

_Screw it_— perfection was overrated. He smiled at the thought. Well, at least he'd managed to stop the bleeding, and as for the bullets still lodged in Baracus…yeah…well…he was going to let someone else worry about that—someone _far_ more qualified.

With that, he sat up, forced open his eyes and peered over at Callaghan. Instantly, his smile faded.

Steeled in concentration, the medic was hard at work on Dom—who, with pallid skin, was deathly still; his sunken eyes were closed, body limp.

Even though his patient was clearly unconscious, Callaghan held his strained smile in place, offering up comforting words—which Face was barely able to hear over the noise of the Huey.

"You're gonna be ok…" Callaghan said, leaning down, his voice flawlessly smooth, sure. "This is nothing…You're gonna get some down time with a cute nurse or two and be right back on your feet in no time—beating me at cards and giving Ray shit."

The performance was good; hell, Face almost believed it himself, but the growing pools of crimson staining the chopper floor beneath Dom betrayed any sense of reassurance Callaghan tried to convey. Face gave a deep, long sigh, wanting to look away but incapable of doing so.

Without thought, Face focused on Dom's chest, trying to gauge whether the man still drew in breath, but with the constant jostle and vibration of the chopper, he couldn't tell. The only clue he had that Dom still lived was the fact that Callaghan hadn't yet stopped tending to him.

Callaghan was holding his shit together better than Face would have expected. After all, that was his best friend he was watching die. Face felt a stab of guilt for labeling Dom as dying—wasn't there still hope, no matter how frail? He doubted it…

Behind Callaghan, Ray and Hannibal stood—their expressions somber as they spoke in hushed tones and watched the medic work. Their hands and fatigues were smeared with Dom's blood from their attempts to aid Callaghan in his work, but there was no more they could.

Face caught a brief snippet of Hannibal and Ray's conversation, as their tones suddenly turned heated.

"Damn it, Hannibal…" Ray snapped. "You can't just…"

"RAY." Hannibal's voice, sharp and commanding, silenced Ray.

The Colonel gave Brenner a hard stare before glancing over at Face and then Dom. Ray followed suit, and seeing the two men raptly watching him, he shrugged and turned his attention back to Hannibal before speaking in a far more sedate voice.

Hannibal responded, too quietly for Face to hear, but his expression made it clear that Ray had overstepped his position and that the matter would be taken care of how Hannibal saw fit.

Ray nodded dully, giving no further argument.

The whole incident, though, gave Face cause for concern. He may not have been with the team long, but he was fully aware that Ray was Hannibal's voice of reason when it came to his unorthodox, risky plans. So, if Ray was on edge and quarrelling with the Colonel, which he rarely ever was, Hannibal must have had something very questionable in the works.

Face frowned. None of this was sitting well with him, and Murdock's disappearing act earlier out the side door had been rather unnerving, but Face hadn't had a lot of time to ponder it much. He'd been too busy trying to plug holes in BA.

He narrowed his gaze on Hannibal, watching carefully as the Colonel's hand drifted to the shirt pocket housing his cigar. A hazy memory from his first op with the team surfaced in Face's thoughts. It had been during a firefight, one that they seemed destined to lose. The LZ was too hot for extraction and they were running low on ammo. Face was sure it was the end, but Ray only laughed and offered some rather confusing words of encouragement.

'_Kid, this is nothing. The only time you ever need to really worry is when Hannibal lights up his cigar before we've been debriefed on an op. If he does that, then we know we're screwed.'_

Face let the memory fade as he stared across the chopper. Fortunately, the cigar never came out, as the Colonel would suddenly seem to remember himself, and, drawing his hand away, he would start to study Dom again or return to his quiet conversation with Ray.

Slowly, hesitantly, Face turned his attention back to BA.

Sweat sheening his dark skin, BA's head lolled heavily to one side. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face wrinkled and pinched in pain. Weak from blood loss, BA fought to remain conscious. The struggle was uncomfortable to witness though as the big guy slipped in and out of lucidity, muttering either threats or fearful pleas.

Face sighed. Befriending the toughest guy around had been a calculated move, something that he had done countless times before; it was meant to provide additional protection in case any of his scams went sour, and, for the most part, it worked. People would back down at the sight of the large sergeant.

However, Face found that winning Baracus over had been more difficult than most others. He didn't drink, he didn't smoke and he merely shrugged off any offers Face made of finding him _dates._

The guy was one of the biggest enigmas Face had encountered, and, for a while, he started to think the man's loyalty couldn't be bought. But then, mainly through pure persistence, Face won him over with nothing more than charm. There was one problem with this new found friendship though, Face had never meant for it to be genuine—which, he suddenly, startlingly realized, as BA sat injured beside him, it was.

Face frowned. _Shit. _How had that happened?

He liked the guy, though he wasn't always sure why. Partially, perhaps, it was his honesty. BA told the truth—the blatant, honest, sometimes hurtful truth. If he didn't like you, he said so, and if he _really _didn't like you, he punched you in the face. Judging by his path of destruction, there were a lot of people BA _really_ didn't like. Many of which just happened to be officers.

There was something refreshing about that level of honesty—something Face admired. He didn't exactly envy it, but it did grant him a certain amount of respect for BA, and, somehow, that respect had led to trust and finally to friendship.

_Damn. _Face gave a half-hearted grin as he looked at Baracus. So now he had two friends in country.

"Tell…Mama…sorry…." BA mumbled softly. "…don't leave me…not here."

"Hey buddy, no one is going to leave you anywhere, ok? We're going back to base right now." Face watched the Sergeant carefully, trying to gauge whether the man understood.

Gradually, BA gave a deep scowl. "I'm…I'm gonna kill…." He paused, wetting his lips. "…the pilot…I...don't wanna fly…."

Face grinned. "Well, killing the pilot is going to have to wait until after we land, and I'll be kind enough to give him a warning before you find him." He waited for a reaction, but, judging by the deep, rhythmic sound of his breathing, BA must've drifted off again.

With a sigh, Face leaned back and closed his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he was this tired. He could feel the surges of adrenaline from the battle fading, leaving him with nothing but the gnawing need for sleep. Maybe the date with Cheryl had been pushing the envelope a bit too far? After all, had she really been worth that sacrifice? Now Cindy on the other hand…he was sure _she_ would have made life more interesting…

"You ok, kid?"

Startled, Face flinched upright, staring at Hannibal—who suddenly stood beside him. He tried to hide his surprise, but sensing it was a useless endeavor, he merely shrugged. "Geez, did you have to scare the crap out of me like that?"

Hannibal chuckled. "Well, it's not like I was trying." He glanced down at Face's boot. "How's the foot?"

Face frowned; he really didn't want to think about that. "Well, I don't think the stakes were poisoned, if that's what you're asking. They were just smeared in good ol' fashioned shit." He forced a smile. "_Lucky me!" _He was not looking forward to the prodding his foot was going to get when they got back to base, but he really didn't like the idea of an infection setting in either.

Hannibal nodded and then sat down next to Face. They were both silent a moment, listening to the churn of the chopper's blades. Face was bone tired, but, knowing Hannibal was there for a reason, he resisted the urge to lean back and doze.

"How's BA?" Hannibal asked at last, his gaze drifting to the Sergeant.

"Good. I mean, he'll pull through." Hell, Face wasn't sure, but it sounded like the right thing to say; he was too exhausted to come up with anything better than that.

"Yeah, I'm sure he will…" Hannibal trailed off, his brow furrowing as he tenderly rubbed the patch of bloodied hair on his head. "We might have an issue with…"

His words came to a sudden halt as Murdock's voice bellowed out over the steady hum of the Huey.

"HANNIBAL! HEY, COLONEL, GET UP HERE! HANN-I-BAL! HELLO?"

Face was barely able to catch the quick curse that Hannibal muttered before he sprang to his feet and disappeared into the cockpit.

With a deep groan, Face leaned back, hoping this wasn't Murdock simply messing with Hannibal. He'd ask the pilot to be on his best behavior. Of course, he'd forgotten to ask him to leave his patented howl behind this mission— at least until Hannibal got to know him a little better. With the way things were going, Face was really starting to doubt whether Hannibal was going to ask Murdock to fly for them again.

"We gonna crash…"

Surprised to hear BA semi-coherent again, Face glanced over at the man. "No, we're not going to crash. Murdock is…"

"A crazy fool…" BA muttered. "We gonna crash and we gonna _die._" His eyelids lifted, revealing his glossy, unfocused eyes. "Crazy pilot is probably telling that to Hannibal right now."

Face was going to answer, but, as BA's eyes fluttered shut again, he knew it would do no good. The man would neither hear him nor believe him at this point.

He waited a few more tense minutes before Hannibal reappeared. After exiting the cockpit, the Colonel stood stock still as he surveyed his men— his eyes filled with cold calculation. As the icy gaze finally fell on him, Face felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He wasn't sure what Murdock had said to the Colonel, but it obviously hadn't been good news.

Glancing away, Hannibal slowly reached into his pocket and fished out his cigar and lighter. Face could feel his breath catch as he watched. This didn't really mean anything, right? Slowly, the Colonel raised the cigar to his mouth, gingerly clamping it between his pearly white teeth. Face's heart began to race; he wanted to call out, to make Hannibal stop, but this new fear seemed so silly, so pointless.

Hannibal flicked the lighter on, quickly holding the tiny flame to the end of his cigar as he drew in the first few puffs of sweet tobacco smoke. Snapping the lighter shut, he pocketed it and stared blankly out the side door at the dark rice paddies below.

Stunned, Face glanced over at Ray, but the shock in the man's expression told him everything he needed to know. _They were screwed._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Stepping from the cockpit, Hannibal mulled over Murdock's latest concern. The pilot's suspicions made sense, but, _damn it_…

The Colonel let his gaze sweep over his men; battered, exhausted and emotionally spent, they were in no condition to fend off an enemy attack at Dong Xoai. For their sake, he hoped the Captain was wrong, but he doubted it.

As his gaze halted on Face, he was surprised to find the kid sitting up, alert, staring intensely back at him. Face had to be running on nothing but fear and adrenaline at this point.

Hannibal kept his expression neutral— not wanting to feed the kid full of any more worry, if that was possible. _God damn; _he needed to come up with a new plan if he wanted to keep these boys alive.

Unable to endure Face's imploring stare any longer, Hannibal turned away, making it perfectly clear he wasn't ready to talk…yet. It wasn't until he flicked his lighter open and clicked the little flame on that he realized he'd absentmindedly retrieved his cigar from his pocket and put it to his mouth.

He clenched the cigar between his teeth, steadying it with his thumb and index finger as he raised his lighter, letting the flame dance well beneath its tip. The first few tentative puffs were merely meant to draw the flame upwards, and, as he did so, he slowly rolled the cigar between his fingers so that it lit evenly. Shitty or not, it was still a source of comfort—one he couldn't afford let sit idle any longer.

Hannibal hoped the cigar would help with his plotting. His mind seemed to function better when he smoked; he wasn't sure why, but it did.

In one swift motion, he snapped the lighter shut and pocketed it.

With the cigar lit, his thoughts wandered, and he found himself staring out the side door of the chopper, locked in deep contemplation as he savored the sweet tobacco smoke filling his lungs. The way he saw it, he had two separate issues that needed addressing—one of which was the explosives latched to the skids. No matter what Murdock had said earlier, Hannibal had no intentions of bailing out of the chopper with the rest of his team. He had _not _planned on leaving the pilot to tackle the issue alone.

But now…

He took another puff off his cigar and shrugged. How could he stay airborne when there was a possibility his men might be walking into a firefight at the SF camp in Dong Xoai?

But, hell, he didn't have a lot of options over who he could leave with Murdock either. The only person on the team better at working demo than Hannibal was BA, and he certainly wasn't up for the task at the moment.

Ray was a possibility; he could stay aboard and defuse whatever nasty surprise the Viet Cong had left, but, although he wasn't an entirely superstitious man, Hannibal didn't much care much the notion of giving someone so close to wake-up a suicide mission; that never turned out well. _And, _he really didn't want to have to write home to Ray's gal, Trish, telling her that he'd gotten Ray blown up three months before he was discharged; that would've certainly gotten Hannibal's standing invitation to Christmas dinners revoked.

No, this was the sort of thing he wouldn't order someone to do—he respect himself and his position far too much for that. Hannibal was either going to stay behind himself or none of his men would, but that hardly made his decision any easier.

"Colonel?"

He turned, staring back at his LT, fully aware of how Ray's gaze was settled on his cigar. Suddenly, with striking clarity, Hannibal recalled each time he'd lit a cigar up while still on an op; it had only been during the bleakest of times. How had ne never realized that before?

After this new revelation, his first instinct was to stub the cigar out, try to bring some reassurance back to his men, but, as he caught sight of Callaghan and Face, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, staring at him, he knew it was too late for that.

_Shit…_

With as much nonchalance as he could muster, Hannibal plucked the cigar from his mouth and tapped the ash onto the chopper floor. "Listen guys, things might get a little dicey here pretty soon." He paused, taking in a deep breath and trying to exude as much confidence as he could. "We're gonna get through this though."

Doubt hung heavily in the bird, Hannibal could practically taste it. He was going to have to come up with one hell of a plan…

"Hannibal!" Murdock's voice suddenly drew the Colonel's attention, but before he could make his way to the cockpit, the pilot quickly added, "We're at Dong Xoai. I'm lowering her now, get 'em out."

_SHIT… _Time was up. He clenched the cigar back between his teeth just as the Huey dipped down, halting only to hover a few feet above the ground.

"Use the right door only, as far back on the skid as possible…" Hannibal had eyed that section earlier and it looked fairly clear of booby-traps. "Face and Callaghan, you two out first."

There was a slight stir of confusion and both men made as if to protest but instead set about following Hannibal's orders. They hopped out—quick to turn and take hold of Dom, who Hannibal was already easing out of the chopper. Next, Ray helped the Colonel maneuver BA out into the outstretched arms of his comrades.

"Ray…" Hannibal paused with his LT at the door. "…get the men to the camp. Warn the SF unit and the ARVN that there might be a Viet Cong attack on the base in the next few hours or in the morning. I can't be sure of the numbers."

Ray grimaced. "Shit, Hannibal, really?"

Hannibal nodded. "Yeah, it looks that way."

"And…You're not coming with us, are you?" Ray asked, but it was a question that Hannibal was sure his LT already knew the answer to.

"Not now…" He replied. "…but I'll be there soon. I just have to take care of these flyboys first."

Ray didn't answer as he met the Colonel's gaze, but Hannibal could read the man's expression well; he was searching, seeing if there was any way to dissuade him from this plan, but there wasn't—which seemed to be the exact conclusion Ray came to as he gave a silent shrug, turned and exited the chopper.

Alone as the Huey steadily rose, Hannibal stood in the doorway watching his men converge on Ray, surely hounding the man for questions. Hannibal's departure would only fuel their concern, but he couldn't help that, not now.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?"

Hannibal flinched at the question, wheeling about to find Murdock standing beside him. What the hell was he doing out of the cockpit again? This bit was getting mighty stale.

"Captain, you had better have a _damn_ good reason for…"

"Being back here again?" Murdock asked with a grin. "Well, I do, just so you know, I wanted to wave an adios to my amigo Faceman down there." He stepped closer, waving a hand at Peck—who, some fifty feet below, stared back with what could only be described as stunned dread.

"Murdock, this isn't…."

"Ah, I know, this isn't the time or the place for shenanigans." Murdock leaned out the door a little further, weaving a hand behind Hannibal so he could grab the frame of the door for support. "You know, Colonel, I really came back here to thank you for saving me out there in the jungle today…and…" He paused, a happy, mischievous gleam lighting his eyes. "…to repay you for that."

For a few seconds, Hannibal stood staring at the man, trying to deciper what he meant. Repay him? How?

And then, two things happened in quick succession—the chopper dipped down again, halting and hovering only six feet from the ground, and then Murdock lunged at Hannibal.

Hannibal may have had more training in hand-to-hand combat than the pilot, but Murdock had both the element of surprise and his damn lanky limbs on his side. In a flash, he'd shoved Hannibal from the chopper.

His instincts kicking in, Hannibal managed to hit the ground without doing any damage, although he certainly wouldn't have called it a _soft_ landing. Stunned, he lay still a moment, staring up at the whirling chopper blades above him. Gradually, he sat up, finding both Face and Ray crouching beside him.

"You alright?" Ray asked, but Hannibal merely waved the man off.

"Yeah, besides the fact that my pilot just threw me from a chopper," he snapped back, getting to his feet. "Are the men ready? We need to move out…now."

Ray nodded before moving off—taking the hint that Hannibal needed some space while he stewed in this new embarrassment. Face, on the hand, either did not take the hint or chose to ignore it.

Hannibal cast a quick glare at the kid, but he found that Face's attention was solely on the chopper. He followed Face's gaze, spotting Murdock standing triumphantly in the door with a toothy, goofy grin. The Huey must have risen another twenty feet off the ground.

"I TOLD YA…." Murdock yelled down. "…THAT NO ONE WAS STAYING ABOARD, EVEN YOU, COLONEL. IN THE AIR, I'M RESPONSIBLE FOR YOU, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND."

Damn it, Hannibal was pissed but impressed too—not that he was going to admit that; there was no way in hell he wanted his men to think they could start pulling shit like this on him.

"SO…" the Captain added, "…CAN I LOOK FORWARD TO A COURT MARTIAL AFTER THIS?"

Hannibal blinked. What the hell was his game now?

"HOW ABOUT NOW?" Murdock grinned, proudly holding up a small object for Hannibal to see.

The Colonel frowned, not recognizing what the Captain held until he put it to his mouth and took a few puffs.

Rational thought tainted by a blind, furious frustration, Hannibal clenched his fists, yelling back at the pilot. "DAMN YOU, MURDOCK! I'LL GIVE YOU A BLASTED COURT MARTIAL IF THAT'S WHAT'S YOU'RE GUNNING FOR!"

Murdock, for his part, merely laughed, turned away and disappeared into the chopper. After a few moments, when the Captain was, no doubt, back behind the controls again, the Huey gained altitude before pulling away, heading toward a nearby expanse of rice paddies.

Hannibal watched the chopper leave, an inkling of relief overcoming him. Staying on the chopper had been a difficult decision, and, almost as soon as he decided to do so, he felt sure he was going to regret it. Murdock might have just done him the best serve anyone could have, with the exception of the cigar. Still, that didn't mean he wasn't going to give the pilot hell when he saw him again…if he saw him again.

"_Holy shit…" _Face hissed, causing Hannibal to cast a quick sideways glance at the kid—who stood, staring upward, brow creased, eyes filled with concern and bewilderment.

"Yeah…" Hannibal narrowed his gaze on his young Lieutenant. "What?" If the kid knew what was good for him, he'd choose his next words _very_ carefully.

"Well…" Face's shock slowly seemed to melt, giving way to a roguish grin. "…I had_ no _idea Murdock smoked cigars."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Squaring back his shoulders, Murdock sauntered into the cockpit still chomping on _Hannibal's_ cigar. Even if it was a shitty, at that moment, it tasted pretty damn good. With a grin, he eased into the pilot's seat but didn't bother taking the controls—after all, he needed to leave again soon enough; he'd just wanted to check on the kid.

This was a lot to ask of anyone but especially of someone so green—someone who'd just been through so much.

He caught the sideways glance from Oz, and, eerily enough, the guy was stone-faced serious, all business. If any trauma from his ordeal remained, he hid it _really_ damn well. Though impossible, Murdock almost suspected the kid had been taking lessons from Face—which wasn't necessarily a good thing.

An inkling of disgust slowly seeped onto Oz's face as he raised a brow at Murdock. With a wrinkled nose, he eyeballed the cigar but made no remark about the pungent, sweet odor wafting from the rolled tobacco—the look said enough. He didn't like it, but he knew well enough not to hound a _Captain _for his smoking.

After clearing his throat, Oz turned his attention back to the flight. "We're low on fuel," he said, deadpan, before adding, "Like drop out of the sky low."

_Yep, that could be a problem…_

Murdock reached up and plucked the cigar from his mouth, before studying it thoughtfully. Why did Hannibal smoke such shitty cigars? Couldn't a Colonel manage to get his hands on something better? With Faceman on his team, he_ could_ get whatever he wanted—if he wanted to, but maybe he didn't want to encourage those _specific_ talents.

"They're all out?"

Thoughts disrupted, Murdock blinked, trying to register what Oz had meant. "Uh…yeah…they're _all _out—with some coaxing."

"Even the Colonel? Smith? I thought you said he was going to be hard to convince…"

Murdock put the cigar back to his lips, took another puff and then let out a low chuckle. "People are less difficult to persuade when you just shove 'em out."

"WHAT?" Oz turned, eyes widening, mouth hanging slack for a moment as he stared at Murdock. "You pushed a _Colonel _out of _this_ chopper?" Expression still frozen in stunned disbelief, he turned away, slumping back into his seat. "You really are crazy," he muttered, his voice barely carrying over the hum of the Huey.

"Crazy like a fox," Murdock answered, still grinning; he'd expected this reaction from his young co-pilot. "You know, I might have just saved that Colonel's life."

Oz gave a sad, dry laugh; then, he quieted and they sat listening to the blades turn for a while before he finally spoke again. "You know…that kind of implies we aren't going to make it."

_Shit. _Murdock frowned. Well, he _hadn't _meant it that way. At the very least, he had no intention of taking the kid out with him if it came to that. He hoped it wouldn't come to that…but…

"Don't worry…" Feeling antsy, Murdock stood, staring down at the kid. "…you'll live to fly another day."

He watched Oz at the controls for a moment. The kid wasn't bad, he wasn't great either, but that came with practice. Given some time, he could whip him into one hell of a pilot.

Murdock shrugged._ Shit_; he had to get going; he couldn't keep stalling, because that was totally what he was doing and he knew it.

"I'm heading to the back, ok?" The Captain grimaced at his own words. He hadn't thought this through enough; panic welled inside of him, but he forced it down. This was his bird now, and he was gonna do everything he could to keep her going, or at least to keep her crew safe.

Oz nodded, not taking his eyes off the controls—his expression reverting back to the haunted mask it had been earlier when he'd relived the deaths of his fellow crewmen. Murdock reached out to place a comforting hand on the kid's shoulder, but he pulled back. He didn't know the kid well enough for that. Slowly, he turned and started to head out of the cockpit.

"Murdock?"

At the sound of Oz's voice he halted, but didn't turn to face the kid. It wouldn't have mattered; he knew Oz would still be focused on the controls. "Yeah?"

"It was like you said, wasn't it? He threatened you with a court-martial?" He could hear the shadowy, sad amusement laced in the kid's tone.

Murdock chuckled. "Not at first, but…" He paused, giving in to the dramatic effect. "…he sure did once he saw I'd swiped his cigar."

"_Ah, shit_…" Oz's voice was low, but the tired, honest laugh that followed was really damn refreshing. "And, why do I think you did that just for the threat of a court-martial?"

_Hmmm, that was a good question._

"Well," he answered at last, playfully, "the Colonel would have been a lot more pissed off if he'd landed and taken a lit cigar to the eye. I was just …saving face…so to speak."

Oz laughed again. "Alright, I'll buy that if you want me to. Just go on…and…well…try not to blow us up, ok?"

Murdock shrugged. That was actually a lot to ask for, but he tried to keep his answer energetic, hopeful. "Yeah, muchacho, no problem!" And then he quickly ducked out the cockpit.

_Shit…shit…shit…_

This plan had sounded a hell of a lot better earlier in his head,_ and_ before he had kicked everyone with any kind of demolitions expertise out of the Huey. Now…well…this seemed like a giant, fucking mistake.

Nearing the right door gunner's position, he grabbed a monkey harness and slipped into it—not that it would do a lick of good if he blew himself and the chopper to hell, but at least they'd all go down together.

Staring out at the right skid, he took a deep breath. There wouldn't be much light left if he didn't hurry. Dusk here wasn't like back home; the day didn't leisurely dim into darkness but instead seemed to turn, like a flick of the switch, to night.

Murdock stepped onto the skid, eyeing the rice paddy below—watching the dark ripple of stalks and leaves bow and sway beneath the Huey's downdraft. Slowly, he crouched, taking out his knife as he did so. He studied the length of the skid carefully, quickly.

The C-4 under the bird had to go first. A few wires ran from a nasty and rather makeshift looking claymore on the skid to the chunk of explosives fixed in place under the Huey. Murdock sliced the wires then contorted his lanky frame and made the long reach for the C-4. With his knife tip, he dislodged the explosives and watched as they silently tumbled to the ground below.

He worked the claymore loose next, cutting easily through the twine holding it in place. Again, he let it fall to the ground, but this time the landing wasn't so quiet. The blast didn't extend far enough upwards to do the chopper any harm, but the suddenness of the explosion must have startled Oz as the Huey suddenly jerked stiffly to the right.

In his awkward position, Murdock clung, white-knuckled, to the skid. Yeah, he was harnessed in, but there were still about four or five more claymores on that side that he was liable to set off if he was left dangling. As the chopper steadied, he immediately set back to work, making quick time in getting the right skid cleared. Only two more of the claymores exploded on impact with the ground, but Oz, not giving in to any further sudden lurches, must've been prepared for these.

Arms weak, shaky, Murdock hauled himself back into the chopper. He lay on the floor for a moment, panting and listening to the frantic pace of his racing heart; it filled his ears, competing with the sound of the chopper. He was sweating quite freely in the humid air, but rubbing away the rivulets of sweat making their way from his temple down his face was pointless; they would return in seconds. He only wiped a sleeve across his brow when the sweat made its way into his eyes and blurred his vision.

Not allowing any more time for hesitation, he made his way to the left skid and lowered himself out. Again, he extended his reach, disconnecting the C-4 from the fuselage. Then, he moved on to the claymores.

The first came off without incident, but, as he moved on to the second, he felt a new dread settle over him. The claymore was sealed in mud—dried mud with telltale bulges.

_Damn it._ He stared at it a moment, knife at the ready. Could he chance it? He shrugged; no. Digging the knife in, trying to pry it loose would undoubtedly trigger the grenades in the mud.

He glanced down the skid; there were three more claymores to go—all free of mud. Moving down, he started to work on the next, but it was then that ping of riveting gunfire rang out.

"_SHIT!" _His shout cost him Hannibal's cigar as it flew from his mouth, twirling downward and out of sight.

Murdock pulled himself into the tightest ball he could manage, but kept working on the claymore. Time was too short to halt his work, but the gunfire kept coming. In his peripheral vision, he could see the dark silhouettes of the Viet Cong filtering through the field below.

Oz was moving them away already, but the progress, at least to Murdock who was painfully exposed, seemed muted, horribly slow. Another shot rang out, striking the chopper close to Murdock's head; the sound ringing in his ears as he kept working.

_Shit…shit…shit…_This wasn't at all what he pictured his end would be like. If he was gonna die in a chopper, he always figured it would at least be with him behind the controls.

He couldn't keep the tremors from his hands as the shots continued. The claymore he'd been working went free, falling away and detonating itself amid the group of Viet Cong below.

That didn't put an end to the attack though, as an RPG tore by, barely missing the bird. Still dodging gunfire, Murdock drew in a sharp breath as he moved on to the next claymore. Oz was taking evasive maneuvers, making the Captain's job even more difficult, but he'd rather have that than have the Huey take an RPG.

Giving up on all finesse or care, Murdock slashed at the last two claymores, cutting their bonds quickly before he heaved himself back into the chopper, unhooked his harness and scrambled back into the cockpit.

He slid into the pilot's seat and quickly took back the controls—which Oz seemed more than eager to hand over.

"I kept moving off…but they're crawling all over these parts…" There was a hell of a lot of fear in the kid's voice, and Murdock didn't blame him one damn bit.

He turned the chopper back toward the SF camp…well, so much for his plan of ditching in the Song Be River—not that it really mattered; he didn't think he had enough fuel to get there anyway.

"Hey…"Murdock kept his eyes ahead as he spoke; the bird was giving him trouble—she must've taken some hard hits, but at least she was still airborne. "…Oz, reach into my pocket there on my flight suit and get the dog tags out." He paused while Oz did as he said. "There might be some people coming around to ask you about Stinson…be sure they see those and tell them that…well, tell them the Cong might've gotten something off him. A paper or something, but no one saw exactly what it was, ok?"

Silence…

Murdock raised his voice. "OK?"

"Y-yeah...you didn't get it all off the skid, did you?"

"Nope." That was slightly painful to admit, but it was the truth. That last mud encased claymore was going to make landing a son of a bitch. "And…you need to tell Colonel Smith that the Viet Cong have a large mass of soldiers to the east of the city, ok?" Even in the heat, Murdock could feel his blood running cold. After he let the kid out…_Shit; _he didn't want to think about it. He hated knowing that he was gonna crash a bird.

Oz's answer was quiet, almost meek. "I'll tell him."

Ahead, Murdock could see there was activity around the camp but no combat yet; it was just the ARVN and SF units preparing the area for the upcoming engagement. He scanned the soldiers, looking for any sign of _his_ team, but he didn't see them. He liked the feeling of having a ground team, no matter how short lived this pairing was.

Still a distance away from the camp, he lowered the chopper, hovering above the ground. "Looks like we're at your stop, kid."

Oz stood, slowly making his way out of the cockpit. Murdock could feel the reluctance wafting off the kid—leaving a chopper like this would have felt wrong to any airman, Oz included. He was almost out of the cockpit when he paused.

"Stay safe…" That was all the kid said before he left, and Murdock was glad of it; he hadn't the energy for another argument, _and_ there was no one else left to fly the chopper so he could go back and shove the kid out of it.

He waited until he saw that Oz was safely outside and weaving his way toward the ARVN and SF men. Then, Murdock pulled up, flying aimlessly around the outskirts of the camp, wondering exactly what the hell he was going to do now.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Lying sprawled out on his side, BA waded slowly back into consciousness. The rich, rotten decay of the jungle, mixed with the hot, acrid taste of spent gunpowder lingered in his dry mouth. Hazy, confused memories of the jungle firefight and frantic scramble into the chopper returned to him—bullets and mud…blood and pain…the Viet Cong surrounding them…

Fighting back the memories, he shifted slowly, pain flaring from the throbbing wounds in his shoulder and leg. He allowed only one low groan to escape his lips before he stilled, sullenly listening to the pulsing _whump-whump _of chopper blades.

_Flying_—his breath hitched at the thought, and a new cavernous, insatiable swell of terror started to grow in his chest. He muffled another groan, born of dread rather than pain, and, longingly recalled the days when he hadn't been afraid to fly—before that one fateful day…

His thoughts quickly shifted back to the present though as he realized that the steady rhythm of the Huey seemed to be retreating. He tentatively flexed his left hand and was relieved when his fingertips caressed a patch of soft, damp soil. They were out of the chopper.

Any feelings of celebration on BA's part gave way as he overheard Hannibal's voice— solemn, tinged with the harsh, dogged tenacity of a commander pushed to an extreme. _And_ if that wasn't enough to worry the sergeant, the fact that Hannibal was conversing in Vietnamese did the trick.

_Shit_; _had they been captured by the Viet Cong? _Even though his body was numb, begging for him to shift his position, he stayed frozen in place, straining to listen to the conversation, but he didn't know enough Vietnamese to tell what the hell Hannibal was saying.

Not daring to give away the fact that he was conscious, BA slowly, blindly groped at the ground beside him, hoping to find his rifle, but he had no such luck.

Opening his eyes, the first thing he spotted was the dark outline of a lone Huey gliding away over the horizon. Must have been Murdock…BA frowned up at the sky, wondering where the pilot was going but then realized he really didn't give a damn. Hell, as long as the chopper was gone, he didn't have to worry about flying.

_With some luck, maybe the fool will get himself shot down…won't hafta worry about getting on that bird again then…_

The wash of guilt BA felt after conjuring that notion nearly made him sick. He wasn't that kind of person—at least he'd never been before. What would his mama have thought of him for that? But for as much as he tried to convince himself that he hadn't meant it, the shame still remained.

With a heavy, guilty sigh, still laid out on his side in the damp mud, he tilted his head and peered over at Hannibal.

It only took him a moment to spot the snarling panther and faded star painted onto the Vietnamese soldier's helmet. Instantly recognizing the mark of the ARVN Ranger, BA relaxed. They must have made it to Dong Xoai. They were safe.

Still, an edge of tension remained as he watched the two men. Even with his shitty understanding of Vietnamese, BA could sense the direness of what was being said. Hannibal seemed to choose his words _very_ carefully, and the ARVN ranger—a captain by the looks of him— listened with mouth pursed, eyes fixed, unblinking, on the colonel.

Behind the two men, the rest of the ARVN platoon stood, watching, giving mumurs of unrest as they listened to what was being said. When Hannibal finally went silent, the ARVN captain gave a quick shout, summoning one of his men forward. After a few brief words from the captain, the soldier dashed off across the rice paddy.

BA watched him go, noticing for the first time the flurry of activity not far off—must have been the Dong Xoai SF camp.

The conversation between Hannibal and the ARVN captain continued, though BA had a hard time mustering any interest in it. What the hell did it matter if he couldn't understand them? _Shit;_ maybe learning a little Vietnamese wouldn't be such a bad thing…

Slowly, he sat up, trying to ignore the black spots dancing in his vision as shocks of pain ran up his leg and through his shoulder. He'd almost recovered from the dizziness when Face's sudden shout caused him to flinch, bringing back the flare of pain.

"What the hell, Hannibal?"

BA glanced up to see Face limping toward Hannibal, though it was obvious through his movements that Peck was trying to downplay the discomfort of his injury.

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" The exasperation in Face's voice was only emphasized as he, panting hard, ground to a halt inches away from Hannibal. Almost nose to nose with the colonel, Face's tone went flat, dangerous even. "He's gonna die up there because of you."

"Stand down, Lieutenant…"

Hell, BA had never seen the colonel hold his shit together so well. Under any other circumstances he was pretty sure Face would have been in a world of hurt after pulling that crap.

All eyes were on Face and Hannibal, even those of the ARVN soldiers. There was no way the colonel could let Face off free and clear after that outburst.

Face's expression was certainly no longer set in its usual controlled mask. Jaw clenched, eyes blazing, he glared definitely at the Colonel, waiting. When no response was quick in coming, Face finally spoke again. "The chopper skids are loaded with explosives? And we left him up there, by himself to deal with that?"

_Explosives? _BA felt his breath catch. The Huey had been loaded with explosives and they _still_ got on it. _What the hell? _

Hannibal gave a deep, ugly scowl, his gaze bearing down on Face with the icy intensity of winter gale. "Did it really look like I had a _choice_ when it came to leaving the chopper? Did it? Because, as I recall it, that _friend_ of yours decided that he wanted to be up there alone. He went as far as to push a _colonel_ out of that bird…"

BA frowned. Murdock had pushed Hannibal out of the chopper? Damn; the pilot was even crazier than he'd thought.

In the distance a dull explosion sounded and everyone froze, staring off over the fields.

"Must be Murdock and that kid he picked up in the jungle…" Hannibal muttered. "…trying to clear off the skids."

Silence returned as they all strained to listen—giving audible sighs of relief as they heard the gentle thump of chopper blades still humming along.

Face spoke again, his anger clearly ebbing out of his voice as he glanced back at Hannibal. "You didn't have any choice…"

Closest thing to an apology BA had ever heard out of Face. Well, it was the closest thing to an _honest_ apology he'd ever heard out of Face anyway.

"He's a damn good pilot, right?" Hannibal offered up a strained smile. "You said he was one of the best. He'll make it." But the Colonel's tone lacked confidence, and they could all hear it.

Still focused on Hannibal and Face, BA flinched as a group of ARVN soldiers suddenly appeared beside him with a stretcher.

_Oh, hell no…_ There was no way he was letting that happen—unfortunately, they didn't see it that way.

"I'm fine…" He growled, slapping away the hand of the young Vietnamese man lifting the gauze on his leg to get a peek at his wound. "I can make it on my own."

A look of confusion crossed the ARVN soldier's face before he gave a broad smile and pointed to BA's leg and shoulder. He spoke softly, slowly, with a reassurance that transcended language barriers, but still BA wouldn't' give in.

Another low explosion sounded in the distance, followed by a third.

After a short pause, staring uncertainly into the distance from where the explosions sounded, the soldiers again moved as if they were going to load BA onto the stretcher and again BA forced them away. He could see that Dom was already loaded onto a stretcher, being carried off with Callaghan close by his side.

The smiling young soldier at his side gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder—more soft words of Vietnamese drifting from his mouth. BA glared up at him. Couldn't the guy take a hint?

The ARVN Ranger's face was plump, fully round and filled with an honest, simple joy that BA hadn't seen in a long time…not in 'Nam anyway. His happy eyes sparkled as he continued to smile down at BA.

Voice as smooth as silk, the jolly young soldier spoke again. "Xin vui lòng, hãy cho chúng tôi giúp đỡ. Vết thương của bạn là không tốt."

"Man," BA growled, "I don't understand you…" He paused to wave him off. "Just go away. I said I'm fine."

"Well, he says…"

BA glanced up, finding Face standing beside him with the other ARVN soldiers.

"…that your wounds are not good. They just want to help."

BA did a quick survey of this leg and shoulder. Hell, they did look gruesome and felt even worse, but he wasn't about to let anyone carry him, not if he had any say in the matter. "Tell them I'm fine," he huffed, knowing full well it was a lie.

Face smiled softly as he turned to the ARVN soldiers. "Tôi sẽ có được anh ta."

More faint explosions sounded in the background, Face flinching at each.

The smiling soldier eyed the lieutenant for a moment before turning to his comrades with a few hushed words. Then, the other ARVN men moved off with the stretcher, leaving the cheery ranger alone with BA and Face.

The happy expression never leaving his face, the soldier gave Face a thumb's up. "Tên tôi là Phuoc Huu. Tôi sẽ giúp bạn."

BA groaned. "Faceman…why ain't the fool leaving with the others?"

"Well…he says his name is Phuoc Huu and he seems to think he's going to help me haul your big ol' heavy ass to the Dong Xoai camp."

Before BA could protest, Phuoc Huu already had a hold of his good arm, hauling him up. Stifling the cries of pain that tried to escape him, BA managed to wobble to his feet, only leaning very lightly on Face as he moved in to help as well; he knew Peck was already hurting enough—he didn't need to be taking on any extra burdens.

Slowly, they started out after the rest of the group. Ahead, BA could see Hannibal and Ray still exchanging information with the ARVN captain.

"Face…" BA panted, trying to keep his pace steady. "…what the hell is going on, exactly?"

Through gritted teeth, Face chuckled. "Well—let's see—Murdock is about to blow himself to smithereens, I'm wounded, you're wounded, and I think Hannibal is wounded, but who can really tell with the Colonel. Dom is bleeding to death, and, well, it looks like we've just landed at the Dong Xoai base camp as it's about to be overrun with Viet Cong. I guess word has been sent to the 118th Aviation Company in Bien Hoa that we'll need reinforcements, but I imagine it will take a while for them to pick up the necessary troops and come over here to save our asses. Other than that..." He paused to give another dry laugh. "…everything is just peachy."

BA shrugged. "Well…at least Ray and Callaghan aren't injured…yet." He'd spoken without thinking over what he was saying, and it wasn't until Face gave a loud laugh that he realized the ridiculous of the statement.

"That's rich, BA…" Face smiled. "Didn't know you had a sense of humor."

"Me neither," BA replied, grinning despite his pain.

Hell, even Phuoc Huu gave a chuckle, even though he probably didn't know what the hell they were saying.

The trek to the camp was slow, and by the time they arrived, BA was fully exhausted. His main concern was getting to someplace fortified _before_ he collapsed, so he was more than a little irritated when Face halted before they had reached safety.

"What the hell, man. We gotta…" But BA paused as he glanced up and caught sight of a man in a flight suit with his back to them talking with Hannibal.

Face lurched forward, dragging BA and Phuoc Huu with him, but as they neared the Colonel, it was clear that the flight suit clad man wasn't Murdock.

"Who the hell is this?" Face asked, letting go of BA—causing the sergeant to lean a little heavier on Phuoc Huu; he _really_ hoped he didn't crush the little plump man.

The pale, dark haired kid in the flight suit wheeled around, his wide, frantic gaze moving from Face to BA and then back again. He took a shaky breath before answering. "Warrant Officer Oswald Grimstone."

"This…" Hannibal added. "…was the guy Murdock picked up in the jungle. He was acting as co-pilot on the Huey for us."

In the long pause that followed, BA could actually hear Face draw in and hold his breath as he stared at the young Warrant Officer. It had to be clear to them all, the question burning in Face's head—the one he seemed reluctant or even afraid to ask.

Finally, unable to endure the silence any longer, BA formed the words Face could not. "Where's Murdock?"

Oswald held his rigid stance, eyeing the sky vacantly for a few seconds before answering. "He's still flying—couldn't get the left skid cleared…"

BA wished to god he'd been looking anywhere but at Peck's face when he'd heard that news. Hell; that was a form of pain he didn't even think the cocky young lieutenant was capable of, but there it was—that strained ugly grief wrinkling his brow, glistening in his eyes.

"_Shit…" _The whispered curse was all Face gave as he turned away.

Hannibal stepped forward, gracefully taking the attention off Face. "Everyone keep moving. I need you inside the compound _now_."

The pulse of chopper blades nearing drew all their attention, and, as they looked up, the lone Huey and her pilot made their way across the darkening sky over the camp. BA watched with sad fascination, wondering what thoughts were going through the doomed pilot's mind.

"_God damn it_," Hannibal snapped. "I told you all to…"

But his words were cut off as the first mortars from the Viet Cong began to drop on the camp.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

_Alone at last…_

Murdock smiled sadly at the thought. Well, any screw-ups he made on the landing would only cost him his own life, and _that_, at least, was comforting. He'd run through a number of possible ways to land the bird—all of which, in his mind, ended in the same tragic conclusion—_KA-BOOM._

He shrugged. Somehow, that image of a wacky explosion was funnier in the cartoons he used to watch as a kid and a lot less so in real life…go figure.

"Come on Murdock baby, think!" He glanced down at the fuel gauge. Yep, he was red-lining it for the ol' JP-4. "Ah, grandma said there'd be days like these…"

A decision had to be made, but before he did so, he made one last pass over the SF camp. He hadn't expected to see Hannibal and his men, but he hoped he would—just so he could confirm they were ok. He spotted BA's massive frame leaning heavily on a tiny figure beside him. Face and Hannibal stood nearby staring dumbly up at the Huey as it passed by.

Murdock grinned. Well, at least they were alright; that was reassuring.

And then the mortars started. He jerked instinctively at the cyclic stick, pulling away as the explosions rocked the camp. In his peripheral vision he could see the men below darting for cover.

He chanced another quick glance at the fuel gauge…

_Shit._ This was it. He'd stalled long enough. Would he make a run for it? See how far he could get from the camp before he had to set down and probably explode? _Or_ would he try and make things a little easier on the SF units and see if he could land his bird on top of some of those Viet Cong bastards hiding in the shadows—which would also result in his fiery demise.

"_Screw that…" _He muttered eyeing the ground for another answer. Hell, he was as patriotic as the next guy, but that didn't mean he wanted to die right at that moment for his country—maybe someday, but not yet. Ok, maybe not even someday…wasn't serving enough?

As his gaze scanned the landscape below, a solution came to him. It wasn't elegant; it wasn't clever, and it wasn't any more reliable of a plan than any of the others he'd thought of, but it had one thing going for it…and that was that he absolutely didn't have one other damn choice any longer.

If he didn't land the bird now, before the fuel ran out, he'd have to do an autorotation—which normally wouldn't have bothered him, but he didn't like the idea of trying to pull it off with explosives on his skid. If the final flare wasn't perfect he'd hit the ground too hard, or he'd slide—either action likely to set off the grenades latched to the Huey.

Nope, this was doing to be a simple landing, and hopefully a soft one. Of course, this close to the camp, he'd have to scramble his ass out of the chopper before the Viet Cong found him. _That was gonna be fun…_

Having settled on a plan of action, he was starting to feel more confident…no matter how much of an impulsive, idiotic idea it was.

Sweat tickling his brow, he studied the rutted rice paddy below. It sure was one hell of a gamble.

_If_ he managed to land the bird with the explosives lined up perfectly in one of the gullies plowed into the paddy, and _if _the Viet Cong didn't immediately shoot holes in him once he touched ground, there was still the possibility of the explosives going off as the Huey slowly sank into the soft soil—which was yet another reason for a quick escape. _Shit;_ this was crazy!

With a loud whoop, Murdock set his plan into motion, bringing the chopper down over the rice field and setting her into a hover as he found _his_ spot. The sudden, familiar _tick-tick-tick_ echoed through the cockpit as bullet holes filled his Plexiglas windshield.

_Damn; _he quickly spun the bird around, so that her nose was facing the camp. Heart pounding, he eased her down.

"Please, oh, please, oh, please…be a good gal for Uncle Murdock…."

It took every ounce of restraint he had not to squeeze his eyes shut on the touchdown—not to flinch in anticipation of the pain that he was sure was to come. But, the landing was smooth, and no explosion sounded. Automatically, he found himself shutting the bird down, even as the sound of gunfire pinging off the back of the Huey increased.

It was surreal—like a bad night of drinking that only comes back in vague, hazy memories. Somehow, he was out of the chopper, on his hands and knees, pushing through the muddy waters. He tried to stand, but a pain flared through his right knee. What had he done? Was he shot? There wasn't time to stop; there wasn't time to check.

He fumbled on, misty sprays flying upwards as bullets dove into the water all around him. Just enough darkness had settled to somewhat veil his escape. If he would have held still, if he would have quit his splashing, then the bullets might have stopped. He knew this. He had been trained for this, but fear overrode that training.

He kept moving, the camp edging closer into view. For a brief moment, he wondered if the SF units would shoot him as he came barreling forward, but then he let the thought pass. He didn't care. He just had to get out of the field, away from the darkness and the…

_**BOOM.**_

Murdock sank to a crouch, glancing back across the field. With the light given off by the burning Huey, he could make out the silhouettes of the Viet Cong soldiers running through the dim evening. They were all heading toward the blazing chopper…away from him.

He held still, panting as he watched the flames. Slowly, he started to slog toward the camp again; no bullets sunk into the muddy waters around him this time though.

Reaching the end of the rice paddy, he staggered onto dry land. Pain shot through his knee with each step, but, upon inspection, he found no wound. He must have twisted it when he got out of the chopper. A dim memory of his belly flop into the murky water surfaced in his mind. That certainly hadn't been the most tactful move he'd ever made.

Still, it was funny, wasn't it? All that chaos and his worse injury had come from his own clumsy actions? He grinned, thinking off all the shit the guys could give him over that.

He was still smiling as he approached the camp. He'd made it…

But, the sudden stillness made him slow. Where were the guards? Hesitantly he entered, suddenly spotting a few faces, American, staring at him from a foxhole.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE?" A voice yelled. "GET YOUR ASS UNDER COVER!"

Murdock blinked. Under cover?

Another mortar suddenly exploded, reminding the pilot of the danger he'd forgotten. At first he started toward the foxhole with the men in it, but it soon became apparent there wasn't any room left. Especially with the guys already in there yelling '_Not here you stupid fuck, find somewhere else_.'

With a quick pivot—which was hell on his bad knee—he spotted a freshly dug drainage ditch. Unfortunately, he quickly realized why no one had chosen this specific location for cover, as he dove in and found that, even lying flat on his belly, he was still half exposed. He held his breath, as if that somehow helped him duck lower and waited for the next mortar to drop.

It did…right on top of the guys in the foxhole. Murdock squeezed his eyes shut as dirt rained down on him. After the blast, the screaming came first—blood curdling, frantic shrieks of terror, but they soon gave way. Time had dulled the screams into low, frightened moans. Staying silent, Murdock kept his eyes closed, praying that it would all stop…the mortars, the sounds of the wounded...all of it.

And then, another mortar fell, but further away this time. Murdock pressed his face harder into the dirt. He was trembling, shaking worse than he ever had in his entire life and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Filled with agony, a lone voice suddenly called out. "_Please…someone help me…help me…"_

Tentatively, Murdock raised his head, staring over at the bloodied mess of fatigues dragging itself from the rubble. The sight of the grunt chilled him. How could anyone survive like that?

"_Please…Lord…Please…" _The man's voice trailed into sobs. "…_I don't wanna die…not here…"_

And with that, Murdock was up. It took his fear two paces to catch up with him—just long enough to keep him from turning back and diving into his tiny ditch once again.

Skidding to a halt beside the bloodied figure, Murdock gave a quiet gasp as he witnessed the wounds up close. There was no way this grunt was going to live, but, all the same, he couldn't be left in the open to die alone.

"I gotcha…" Murdock whispered, leaning down and scooping the man into his arms.

The grunt was light, but that wasn't surprising seeing as he had lost both legs and his right arm. His remaining arm, burned and bleeding, grasped Murdock tightly—startling the pilot slightly.

"_Thank you…thank you…" _The grunt whimpered; his dirt coated face was streaked with tears and blood.

Murdock said nothing, but, as another mortar landed not far off, he started to run. The man in his arms groaned weakly, that low noise being his only complaint against the frantic jostle he received.

Each stride brought a new stabbing pain flaring through his knee, but he ignored it. The mad dash felt like hours in Murdock's mind, but, in reality, it had probably only lasted seconds.

He burst in to the first building he could find, coming to a halt face to face with a startled SF sergeant. The guy was about a foot shorter than Murdock, but with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He took a step back, his dark caterpillar of a mustache following the contour of his mouth as he scowled up at the captain.

"God-damn-it! You're lucky I didn't just shoot your nuts off…" The stalky sergeant shouted, his face flushing crimson, veins bulging in his neck. "Where the hell did you come from anyway?" The man's eyes shifted from Murdock to the bloodied mess he carried. "Ah shit…" the sergeant hissed before turning away, calling back to the other men in the room. "…they got Skip! This guy here just brought him in. He looks like shit."

"_You asshole Artzen…" _Skip groaned. "_I'm not fuckin' dead…I can still hear you…"_

Artzen spun around, wide eyed, staring down at Skip—who in turn was staring back at him.

"Ah," Artzen flashed a crooked grin. "You know that doesn't mean nothing. I _always _think you look like shit, kid…" He leaned forward, taking the injured man from Murdock. "Me and Doc will have you fixed up in no time, alright?"

No reply...

Artzen turned and started to make his way across the room toward the makeshift triage area, and Murdock stood, watching, listening to the explosions outside. He didn't know what to do. Without a chopper, he couldn't just fly away. He was grounded...trapped.

"Hey." Artzen paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "You're that crazy pilot from the Huey that was flying around, right?"

Murdock gave a dull nod. Crazy pilot? Check.

"Your unit is in the back. And once you get back there, find some cover, ok? Not like it will matter...this place takes one hit and we'll all be in the same boat as Skip," Artzen said, turning away again before he slowly started off; there was no need to hurry any longer as what was left of Skip dangled limply in his arms. At least the kid wasn't in pain any longer…

Murdock stood a moment longer, regaining control over his quivering stomach. He could taste the bile in his mouth, but he forced it down. Shaky, weak, he limped to the back in of the room in search of Hannibal and the others as the mortars continued to fall.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Pulse quick, Face drew in a sharp breath, but the raspy rhythm of his filling lungs fell mute against the abrupt burst of mortar fire outside. His ears rang with the hum of the explosion before the slow, steady wheeze of each fearful breath broke through the settling chaos.

As another mortar fell—closer this time, he flinched at the brief torrent of sound and fury that shook the floorboards beneath his feet. Without rhythm, without warning, the explosions kept coming, giving mount to his tension. It was the not knowing, not having any control that fueled his panic. At least in the jungle, rifle in hand, he could fight back, but here…

He had just managed to gather his courage again as another mortar landed—close enough that he could hear the displayed dirt settle as if fell back to earth. Face dropped to a crouch, ducking down beside the cot on which BA lay. The big sergeant had passed out again the moment they'd reached the shelter. Phuoc Huu, joviality waning when the attack began, had left them hastily after a few commands from a stern faced ARVN officer.

_What the hell were they even doing there? How had this mission gone to such shit? _Wide-eyed, Face stood and straightened before glancing around the room. No damage…yet, but he doubted the thin walls of the building could survive a direct hit—or that they could.

His gaze was drawn to Dom as Callaghan and a medic from U.S. Special Forces Detachment A-342—currently stationed in the camp—worked furiously to stop the man's bleeding. Gauze, heavy and damp with crimson, littered the dusty floor around the three. Face swallowed down the knot swelling in his throat; even if they stopped the bleeding, infection from this unsterile operating area would still be an issue.

Sheepishly, he glanced down at his own foot; it burned and ached, swelling within his boot, but there was no help for that now. Hell, if the next mortar found them it wouldn't matter anyway.

It was then that he noticed the lull in explosive destruction sounding outside. He tightened his grip on his M-16, anxiously eyeing the door before turning his gaze to Hannibal, Ray and a couple of bigwigs from the SF camp.

The colonel's clenched jaw and steely, hollow stare hinted at what Face already suspected. The Viet Cong would swarm the camp soon—though, for once, Face actually relished the thought of a firefight; it meant an end to the mortars…hopefully.

Ray shifted nervously, staying so close to Hannibal that he could have been the man's shadow. He was one of the bravest god-damn men Face had ever met, but even brave men got jumpy when they neared the end of their tour. Something about home looming so readily, so near, that they _really _started to care about making it back. Face pondered what that would be like—having something worth going home for.

The mortars started afresh, causing all the men within the room to flinch.

Clearing his throat, Face vainly tried to steady his voice, but it still managed to waiver and crack. "Uh…maybe we should…you know…find someplace a little safer?"

Hannibal was quick to wave him off, before continuing his conversation with Captain Morrick and the two ARVN officers. Only a slight, empathetic nod from the officers greeted Face, and the giant red-headed SF captain, for his part, didn't so much as give him a glance—though his quick, tight-lipped frown hinted at his disdain for the comment.

"So," the colonel said, leaning over the map laid out on the table and tracing a section with his index finger. "You've got this area here and here covered, but what about here?"

"Minefields extend from this point here…" Morrick pointed. "…to here, so we should be ok. _And_ there are a dozen ARVN men posted here and here."

Hannibal nodded. "Should work…for now."

Scowling, Morrick shrugged. "It's gonna have to…until reinforcements show up." He leaned back, staring hard at Hannibal. "As soon as the mortars let up we're going to be up to our assholes in Viet Cong. It looks like '65 all over again."

"Well…" A tense, toothy grin spread across the colonel's face. "…that's something to look forward to then. I can't wait."

A quiet murmur of Vietnamese was exchanged between the ARVN officers before the taller of the two, Captain Trong Chien, noted the two American officers watching him expectantly.

"We are…" Trong paused, seemingly trying to choose the right English words. "…_not_ looking forward to…being up to our assholes in Viet Cong?"

Morrick gave a gruff laugh. "Like it or not…it's gonna happen."

"Yeah…" Hannibal gave a halfhearted chuckle, about to say more but going silent as his gaze shifted up toward the door.

"_Colonel Smith?"_

Hearing the voice, Face wheeled around and gaped at the lanky figure before him. Shoulders hunched, dark eyes haunted and pleading, fatigues slick with blood and chunks of meaty, visceral flesh, Murdock stood nervously waiting.

Face remained frozen in place, staring dumbly. Finally, he found his voice, but even then his nerve seemed to fail him. "W-what happened?"

"I landed the chopper," Murdock answered with a weak smile. "But it was hard getting through the camp…with…the…t-the mortars…"

Face couldn't help but notice the tremble in the pilot's hands as his clenched fists hung at his sides. Murdock must have noticed the looks, as, with a downcast gaze, he quickly shoved his hands into his pockets, hiding them from sight.

"Captain…" Hannibal's voice was calm but firm. "…maybe you should have a seat."

Murdock blinked, his brow knitting slightly as he looked from Hannibal to Face. An understanding of the situation slowly, clearly settling into his expression.

"It's not _my_ blood." He said quietly, but as he limped to a cot and almost collapsed into it, Face felt little relief from the statement.

Morrick, who had silently been watching the incident, suddenly stirred. "Colonel Smith, Captain Trong Chien and myself will be heading out now to get into position. The airstrike has already been called in, but we're up shit creek until they get here. _And_ I wasn't kidding earlier, colonel. You and your men will be on the first chopper out of here when relief arrives. _That _order came in straight from HQ. I don't know what the hell you guys were up to out in the bush, but they want you back in as few as pieces as possible."

For a second, the look of confusion on Hannibal's face was more than evident. Their mission had been a complete failure. There had been no plans to intercept; the chopper hadn't been worth the rescue effort. Everything about this op was fishy.

Not waiting for a response, Morrick turned and headed outside with the two ARVN officers hot on his heels. Hannibal watched them go, the matted, bloodied side of his scalp turned toward Face as he did so.

"You want Callaghan to look at that?" Face asked, though he already knew the answer.

Hannibal kept his gaze on the door. "No, he's busy."

Face knew that look—drawn by some unseen desire, Hannibal stood rigid, attention fully focused on a singular decision. A military man through and through, the colonel ate, sleep and drank war and to have him stand-down, retreat on the precipice of a battle was not something he could understand.

"Your head, you want me to look at it?" Not that Face _wanted _to. He actually hated tending wounds, but sometimes it was necessary, and at least that would keep the colonel from straying outside.

Hannibal chuckled. "No, it's fine." He relaxed, turning his gaze back to Face; his decision made. He would remain.

"Hey, Face!" Murdock hissed from his cot. "Can you tell me why the colonel doesn't have _his _cigar?"

Oz, who had remained so silently stashed in a corner of the room, had come up beside the pilot, and was nervously eyeing the man. Ray too, took a step forward and peered anxiously down at the seemingly confused captain.

Outside, another mortar fell, but it landed farther off this time.

"And what exactly do you mean by_ that_?" Hannibal growled. "Weren't you the one who took it?"

Murdock blinked, his brow a mess of wrinkles as he stared up at Face. "You didn't give it to him?"

_Shit. _He had told Murdock that it was a bad idea from the get go, and he certainly hadn't thought the pilot was actually crazy enough to try.

Face shrugged. "It didn't seem like a good idea to point out to the colonel that the cigar theft was preplanned." He paused, glaring down at the pilot. "I _can't _believe you did it!"

Murdock slumped back, squeezing his eyes shut. "Aw, Face, now he just thinks I'm an asshole that goes around stealing cigars. How does that make things any better?"

A mortar struck close by, rocking the building, but leaving it standing.

Flushed with rage, Hannibal scowled at the two men. "I don't know what's going on, but…"

Face cut him off by producing a single cigar. He held it up, offering it to the colonel, and Hannibal, having gone silent, stared at the thing for a moment before taking it. He studied it, carefully, obviously recognizing its quality as he turned it between his fingers.

Still giving hesitant glances back at Face and Murdock, Hannibal took out his lighter and lit the cigar. After the first puff, the colonel's scowl had been replaced by a toothy grin.

"I still don't know why the hell you tried to pull that shit off, but from now on, kid," he said, peering over at Face, "you'd better have one of these for me all the time." And with that he turned and headed across the room to Callaghan and Dom.

Face plopped down on the cot Murdock lay on, almost sitting on top of the pilot. With a groan, he leaned forward, sinking his head into his hands and rubbing his temples. Too bad Cheryl hadn't worked out earlier…that extra bit of stress relief would have really helped him right now. Hmmm, maybe when they got back he could…

It was Murdock's quiet laughter that interrupted Face's thoughts. He shot a glare back at the man, but as his gaze settled on the lean face split with a goofy grin and eye glistening with mirth, Face couldn't help but smile.

"You see the l-look on the colonel's face when I pused him outta the chopper?" Murdock gasped through his laughter.

Face nodded. "How could I not? Hell, I thought he was gonna try and shoot your bird down himself right then."

Oz eyed the pair warily before slowly slinking off—which only made Murdock laugh all the harder.

BA stirred, eyes fluttering open briefly as he glared at the two men on the cot next to him. "Shut up fools, I'm tryin' to sleep…"

Murdock continued to giggle, staring up at the ceiling, and even though, as the mortars continued to rain down on the camp, it was completely nuts to be laughing, Face did.

* * *

><p>The night had been a long one. Digging in deep, the Viet Cong hadn't been driven away with the first airstrike, or by the second. Twice the camp had almost been overtaken and both Hannibal and Ray had gone out to aid in its defense.<p>

As the first light of morning crested over the horizon, Hannibal watched a group of ARVN soldiers collect their dead. The plump, jolly-faced soldier who had helped BA into the camp was among those who had fallen. Hannibal watched the body being drug away, the dead man's expression contorted in a frozen mask of pain and fear.

However, there was no more room for pity or sorrow in Hannibal's heart though, not for soldiers that weren't his own. He could feel the emotions welling inside him, but he kept them at bay. There was too much to grieve, too much to regret in war—letting that take control would ruin a man.

He turned away, heading back to the triage center. If his men asked, he would tell them of the ARVN soldier's demise, but, unless they _specifically _asked, he would say nothing. It was better for them not to know.

Halting outside the building, he listened to the approaching choppers. That was probably their ride. It had taken almost all night for the Viet Cong's strongholds in the surrounding landscape to be driven back. Until that point though, the camp had been too hot for any choppers to land at. All ground support was dropped off at a somewhat secure LZ not far off, but picking up Hannibal and his men had been an impossible task. Morrick had suggested Hannibal's unit hump it to the LZ, but Hannibal had shot that down immediately. His men were too tired, too injured for such an undertaking. They would wait.

And Hannibal was glad of his decision as the first Slick loomed into sight and set down gently not far off. Even Dom had made it through the night and Callaghan had high hopes for his friend's recovery.

The colonel remained still as his men started to shuffle out of the building. BA leaned heavily on Ray, hesitating only slightly as he glared at the chopper, but the big man swallowed down his fear and kept moving. With a weary smirk, Hannibal watched his sergeant. BA was worth his weight in gold; Hannibal had never met anyone with a better work ethic and mechanical skills. So what if he punched an officer or two every now and then?

Next came Face and Callaghan carrying Dom on a stretcher. Face was limping but making no complaint of it, and Callaghan, who'd gotten no rest at all during the night, looked ready to collapse. Why hadn't someone else carried the stretcher? Hannibal was sure that offers had been made, but, if he knew his men at all, he knew they had refused. Dom was one of their own, and they cared for their own.

Murdock emerged last, with the young pilot, Oz, at his side. The two were chatting quietly. Whatever ordeal and trauma the youngest had been through seemed to slowly be healing with Murdock's help.

Hannibal studied the captain as he slowly made his way to the chopper. He noted how the man's eyes lit up as he inspected the bird, the way he greeted the Huey's crew with a friendly wave; they, in turn, gave a few rambunctious, happy shouts as Murdock boarded.

It was undeniable that the pilot was well-known and well-liked, but Hannibal still hadn't made his mind up about the man…not entirely. He couldn't tell if the pilot was good or lucky. Was the man crazy or just zany in attempt to stay sane? Hannibal pondered this over as he made his way to the Slick. He didn't have his answers yet, but he would get them.

* * *

><p>The officers' club was quiet when Hannibal strolled in. It had been two days since they'd gotten back from Dong Xoai. Dom and BA had been shipped off to Japan to heal. BA would probably come back; Dom was borderline. Face, Ray and Callaghan had already left for a weeklong R&amp;R in Hawaii. Ray was the most anxious of all to be off, seeing as Trish was already there waiting for him.<p>

Hannibal had opted to spend his downtime catching up on paperwork and getting as much information on their next assignment as possible. Being prepared meant staying alive—meant keeping his men alive.

He glanced around the dim room until he spotted the man he was looking for. The lone figure at the table, slowly nursing a rum, seemed less thrilled to see the colonel.

In four strides, Hannibal was at the table. "Mind if I join you?"

Captain Williams shrugged. "Do I have a choice?"

Hannibal frowned and sat down. He hadn't expected a warm welcome, but he had at least thought the man would be somewhat cordial.

"I'm _not_ flying you again," Williams muttered, taking another slow sip of his drink. "I'm on light duty now…gonna go home soon."

"I know," Hannibal answered softly. The pilot was drunk, dead drunk, but that worked out better for the colonel. It was easier to get answers out of an inebriated man. "I need to know about Captain H.M. Murdock."

Williams frowned at his glass before peering up at Hannibal. His glossy eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Hannibal shifted, suddenly _very _uncomfortable under the pilot's gaze. He wasn't sure why, but he felt that he was in the wrong somehow, that he stepped over some threshold he shouldn't have.

"I need a new pilot. You're going home."

A sick, sly grin slid across Williams' face. "You need a new pilot?" He laughed and held his empty glass up, motioning it toward the man at the bar, who nodded. Having confirmed another drink was on its way, William turned his attention back to Hannibal. "And what makes you so damn special that you get a pilot of your own, do you even _know_?"

The bartender appeared, refilled Williams' glass, gave Hannibal a questioning glance and then scurried off.

"Well…I'll tell you why…" Williams continued, pausing to taste his new rum. Smacking his lips, he leaned across the table, his unfocused eyes fixed squarely on Hannibal. His voice was low as he spoke. "You kill pilots…" He leaned back, a knowing smirk on his face. "You do."

Hannibal held his tongue, glaring across the table at the man. They had never so much as had a harsh word between them before, so he hadn't suspected the captain would be harboring such hard feelings.

"You don't do it with your own hands, and you don't mean for it to happen, but all the same." Williams shrugged and took another drink. "Before they assigned me to your unit, you were going through a pilot almost every two missions. Some were killed, some wounded and a few just lost it. So, they called me in—the best of the best. HQ said I had a choice in the matter, but did I really?" He paused to give a gruff, hard laugh. "Take the job and keep countless other pilots alive or let you keep running through them? What kind of choice was that?"

_Shit. _Hannibal stared at the man, wishing he'd ordered a drink of his own. Had he really gone through that many pilots before Williams?

"Well," the pilot said with a sigh, "I'm going home soon. It's someone else's problem now—not mine."

Hannibal took the hint. The man wasn't willing to talk. He pushed back his chair, the wooden legs scuffing loudly as he did so. Williams quickly glanced up, clearly surprised.

"You're leaving?" The captain asked, his voice slightly slurred.

Hannibal nodded. "I probably should."

He was about to turn away when Williams spoke up again.

"Murdock is your man. Without a doubt, he should be your pilot. He's good. He'll keep himself, his crew and your unit alive." Williams toyed with his glass as it sat on the table. "Hell, he's even better than me, but…"

Hannibal waited, watching Williams bite his lip and frown down at his rum.

"I wanted you to know," he said, staring up at the colonel. "I wanted you to know about your pilots. If you take him on, you have to promise me you'll treat him like part of your unit. I was your pilot, but I was never one of your men. He needs to be both."

"I'm still not sure if Murdock will work." It was a lousy way to change the topic, but Hannibal wasn't sure what he wanted to commit to this man yet, because, if he made a promise, he was damn well going to stick to it. "I've had some problems with Lieutenant Peck and it seems as if he and Murdock are friends. I think Peck orchestrated this whole thing to get Murdock onto the unit and I'm not sure if I can trust the two together."

Williams had been in the middle of sipping his rum as Hannibal spoke, and, upon hearing the colonel's concern, he nearly spurt rum out his nose as he started laughing.

Wiping his face with a sleeve, Williams cast an astounded glance at Hannibal. "You think Face got Murdock on the unit? That's rich! You've got it ass backwards. Murdock got Face on your unit."

Hannibal frowned. Maybe Williams was too drunk for this conversation. The man wasn't making any sense.

"Remember back in Da Nang? Back when you went to pick up BA?" Williams seemed relaxed now, strolling happily down memory lane. "And we visited the officers' club? Well, I was already there and you came in later. I hid out in the back corner from you, so you might not have realized I was there, but I was."

"So?" What did any of this have to do with Murdock?

Whatever brief camaraderie Williams had found with the colonel seemed to have vanished; his unsteady gaze scrutinizing the man standing across from him. For a moment, Hannibal thought he'd blown it; he was sure the man would clam up, but the caption continued.

"I was sitting with a few other pilots and Colonel Suthers."

Hannibal perked up as he heard the name. He'd gone to West Point with Suthers, they'd even studied together. In fact, he'd first heard about Peck and his amazing ability to procure anything that a unit needed from the colonel. Suthers was a good man, and Hannibal had trusted his friend's instincts and had searched down the wayward Lieutenant Peck, saving him from a certain court martial.

Williams was grinning from ear to ear. "Ya see, Murdock was at the club with us, and he'd just so happened to have saved Suthers' bacon after the colonel's chopper went down. I guess Murdock was the only pilot crazy enough to swoop down and pick Suthers' ass up out of a complete shitstorm of Viet Cong. Well, we all got to talking and Murdock told Suthers all about Peck and then you came in and Suthers said he had an idea. Now, just between you and me, Murdock is one smart son of bitch. He knew you were in the area and that if he vented to Suthers that the man would search you down and convince you to take on another hard luck case. Hell, me and Murdock sat back and actually watched Suthers telling you about Peck. You lapped that shit up."

"Damn…the kid is good…isn't he?" Hannibal muttered, casting down a weak smile at the captain.

"Yeah…still, the best part of that night was when you clocked that asshole Decker. What was that about anyways?"

"Nothing," Hannibal lied. In reality, he'd punched the colonel to save BA the trouble of doing it later, but he didn't really feel like dragging all that up. "You've given me a lot to think about." He turned and started for the door, before Williams stopped him again.

"He already said he'd fly for you," the captain shouted. "I told him he was crazy and he just grinned. He said he might as well do it because no one else wants to." He paused, his voice growing somber as he continued. "Promise me, Hannibal. I flew my damn best for you. I took a bullet in the leg, crashed two birds, lost three co-pilots and over a dozen gunners. You owe me this. Promise me you'll treat him like part of your team…that he'll be one of your men. I don't…" He seemed to choke on his words a bit, staring sadly down at his empty glass. "I-I don't want the kid to end up like me…"

Hannibal felt the new weight added to his load already. Another life was in his hands. He stared down for a moment at the broken pilot before him. The next two words were all he needed to utter before stepping away and leaving Williams to his misery.

"I promise."

There was a quiet sigh of relief that escaped from Williams; Hannibal barely heard it as he rushed outside. He had his new pilot, but he felt no relief.

In the morning, Hannibal would radio over to Soc Trang, where Murdock had been sent back to his company, the 121st AVN. The pilot would be grounded for a while with his knee, but Hannibal wanted to go through the proper channels before Murdock was back in the rotation. With how popular the man was, the colonel had a feeling he'd get some resistance from the Tiger platoon.

Hannibal slowed outside his hooch, taking a cigar from his pocket. With Face gone, he was back to smoking his shitty cigars, but, on the plus side, after he got everyone back, he was pretty confident that this was going to be a damn fine team.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Thank you to everyone who read this! This is, hopefully, just the first of four Viet Nam stories. <em>**


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